


Unsolved

by sass_bot



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark Comedy, Friendship, Gen, Ghost Hunters, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 61,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sass_bot/pseuds/sass_bot
Summary: Rebecca and her agents are assigned to a different class of case by their Agency superiors -- due to budget cuts, the SPECTRE division of the Agency, specializing in hauntings and paranormal sightings, has requested the aid of Unit Bravo.[31 days of Ghost Hunter Unit Bravo oneshots using prompts by @31daysofwayhaven on tumblr]
Comments: 99
Kudos: 52





	1. Sharp

The Agency van is a haven of warmth compared to the chill of the rank and graffiti-ed parking lot it’s sitting in. Rebecca places her mug of tea to her lips and keeps her eyes fixed on the monitor in front of her, the only source of light in the vehicle. It casts a pale blue shade over her placid face.

Nat steps into view, outlined in night-vision green. In her hand is her Agency-issued EMF detector; she waves the device above her head as though it were a magic wand, eliciting a quiet groan from Morgan off-screen.

Their mission today is to investigate a supernatural presence within an old shut-down bar in some unremarkable town in Minnesota. The bar had supposedly been host to a number of terrible incidents, including a massacre, and had remained in business for only two years before being shut down due to “unnatural incidents”

Normally, things like this are assigned to the SPECTRE division of the Agency – and Rebecca grimaces at the thought. It’s completely predictable of Director Chance to hijack resources from other Agency divisions when she can’t handle her own cases. Rebecca only regrets that Unit Bravo has to pick up the slack this time.

She gives the file another once-over before returning her gaze to the screen and placing a finger to her radio. “Agent du Mortain, report.”

Ava’s steady and collected voice reports back. “We’ve investigated the ground floor where patrons have reported glasses and silverware mysteriously falling off the counters. We have not been able to replicate this phenomenon. We are now heading towards the basement –"

The transmission is interrupted by Farah, who appears further ahead in the live footage playing with two flashlights on the counter. “Hey, ghouls! See these flashlights here?” She hollers, projecting her voice throughout the entire bar. “I’m gonna keep them on for you. If you want to murder us, turn the left flashlight off. If you wanna be my friend, turn the right flashlight off!”

“Seriously?” Morgan growls.

Farah ignores her and snorts. “And if you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends.” The image on the monitor shakes as Morgan holds herself off from an act of terrible violence. “You have ten minutes and then the offer is rescinded!” Farah concludes.

Unsurprisingly, the youngest member of Unit Bravo had been the most enthusiastic about covering SPECTRE cases. She chewed their SPECTRE contact’s ear off with questions about “ghostbusting”, not quite allowing the Agent to correct her mistaken impression that SPECTRE Agents did any “busting” at all.

“Why the ten-minute time limit?” Nat inquires, gently tugging Farah away from her flashlights before Morgan breaks Agency regulations to bring about the second worst massacre to ever happen in this haunted bar.

Farah shrugs. “Time limits give a sense of anxiety. Trust me. They have to listen.”

Rebecca elects not to comment on this, simply watching as Morgan directs the camera down to the basement of the run-down establishment.

Equally as unsurprising, Morgan had been the least enthusiastic about picking up grunt work from a different team – especially when the job required that she be demoted to a glorified camerawoman. To her credit, she does a better job of it than any of her other teammates could – not that it eases her frustration in the least.

“Basement clear,” Ava’s voice cuts into Rebecca’s thoughts. “No sign of the poltergeist here.”

“Thank you, Agent.”

After that, the feed turns black, and for a few moments, Rebecca can only hear shuffling and silence. She holds her breath, waiting for Agent du Mortain to update her on the situation. She’s not particularly worried about her Agents – they’ve handled much worse than poltergeists; they’ve dealt with things that do _real_ harm, not just go bump in the night.

A **sharp** shriek breaks through the silence. Her hand flies to her radio and she barks. “Agent du Mortain –”

“The flashlights!” Farah hollers.

Ava’s voice is clear and commanding amidst the chaos. “Morgan, pick the camera back up again.”

With reluctance, the image shudders before Rebecca can see the green shades of the bar once more. Each of her agents is accounted for in the footage – aside from Morgan behind the camera.

The image steadily moves along the bar and past Farah, who has been vibrating in place and babbling hysterically. It moves past Nat, who has begun to fiddle with her EMF detector again – past Ava who is rubbing her face in exasperation. The camera descends to level with the counter, almost like a defeated shrug.

The flashlight on the right has gone dim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this brainworm squirming around in my head for a while. Here's to 30 more of these weird ass oneshots lmaoo


	2. Monster

Farah’s image comes in and out of focus – double afro-puffs and a perfect heart of bright azure lipstick against a pitch-black backdrop. Her cat-like amber eyes seem to gleam in the display of the camera. She sways back and forth on her heels impatiently.

“Natkins has been in there seven minutes,” she says with a white Cheshire grin. “She is currently attempting to make contact with the spirit in room 207. It is said that this is the spirit of one Johnny Winston, who took his own life out of guilt after taking the lives of his wife and children just days beforehand,” she recites into the camera, her voice taking on a softer more mysterious tone.

Morgan leans against the door to room 213, pointing the camera down the dark hall towards 207. Her eyes, however, scan the drab motel exterior. The neon sign flickers ominously – the only illumination in the area. She wonders idly if it’s the lack of maintenance in this establishment that gives people the impression that it’s haunted. Humans are stupid like that. They’ll get a jammed faucet and assume their late grandfather is trying to kill them from beyond the grave.

Farah alternates her gaze between Morgan and 207, turning her head like a sprinkler. “How much do you wanna bet he killed Nat?” she whispers.

Morgan bites her lip and with it the snarky reply sitting on her tongue.

The speaker in Farah’s ear crackles to life, “Let’s not. Shall we?”

“Party pooper.” She gestures to Morgan with her eyes and mouths, “Fifty dollars.”

Ava’s disembodied voice snaps at her. “I can still see you.”

Morgan smirks, thankful that she’s the one behind the camera. “You’re on.”

“Let’s go check on Natkins!” Farah finally says, making an exaggerated beckoning gesture. "I _sure hope_ she hasn't _died_ under _mysterious_ _circumstances_!"

The shadows of the two vampires blinking in the malfunctioning neon light seem to take on a mind of their own, dancing against the floor and walls. The screeching of the crickets is almost loud enough to mask the sound of their boots against the creaky wooden floor. It reeks of sex, blood, and something minty — Morgan’s nose wrinkles curiously.

Farah’s breathing gets shallow as she tiptoes over to the door. She presses her cheek against the wood, pursing her lips in concentration. Morgan rolls her eyes and continues walking over at her normal pace, allowing the camera to pan around Farah until it is facing the closed door. Morgan scoffs at the whole show Farah has made of it; she can hear what’s going on inside the room well enough without having to press her body against it.

“I hear laughing,” Farah whispers, glancing at her teammate. “And talking.”

With a sigh, Morgan gently peels Farah off the door and opens it, letting it swing freely until it hits the doorstopper with a dull thud.

The duo is met with an interesting sight: Nat sitting at a table, nursing a cup of tea – the scent of the tea and the mint are overpowering, making Morgan’s nose twitch again. Opposite her, sits another figure: a man in his late thirties with an unkempt mop of black hair on his head, wearing an ironed shirt and brown trousers.

None other than Johnny Winston himself.

A look of pleasant surprise crosses Nat’s face as she notices them. “Oh, come in! Johnny was just telling me about his beautiful daughters!”

The top half of Farah’s face is pure panic, and the bottom half is smiling politely. “You mean the beautiful daughters… he murdered, right?”

She instantly regrets the words that came out of her mouth once the temperature in the room drops several degrees. A vase on the vanity begins to vibrate. The phantom’s entire demeanor shifts: his face turns paler, his eyes more bloodshot, and brown and red stains begin to bloom across his once pristine white shirt.

Nat does not seem perturbed in the least by this, however. “No, that turned out not to be true!” she exclaims cheerfully, as though reciting a fact she’d read in a book. “Johnny was never charged. There had been insufficient evidence. Nonetheless, law enforcement and the media continued to hound him for crimes he did not commit – all while he himself was mourning a great loss.”

“And – uh – who told you that?” Morgan says, raising her eyebrow. “Winston?”

“Precisely,” Nat raises a delicate index finger. “Mr. Winston and I had a very lengthy discussion. And I am absolutely certain of his innocence.” She turns to Winston again, who has shifted back to his less frightening form. “You have nothing to fear from me or from the Agency.”

“Thank you, Agent Sewell!” Winston’s hands reach across the table to hold Nat’s in gratitude.

Nat places her second hand over his. “Call me Nat. We’ll make sure you are reunited with Babs and the girls.”

 _For better or for worse_ – a thought that Morgan chooses not to share. Farah now owes her fifty bucks, and that's enough consolation for the bullshittery she's just had to sit though.

A sigh of relief escapes Farah before she can stop it. Her whole body feels as though it had been shoved into a ghostly iron maiden and subsequently released – and for all she knows, it could very well have been. “Well, all’s well that ends well!”

“Indeed.” Nat’s smile spreads a much-needed warmth around the room. “The true **monster** in this tragic tale was the United States criminal justice system all along.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That being said! If you live in the United States, please make sure you're registered to vote! And if you're voting by mail, make sure you send your votes in as soon as possible.
> 
> And happy Trump-Getting-Coronavirus Day


	3. Mirror

The sleek black Agency van speeds down a barren Nevada highway, leaving plumes of dust behind it. The scorching noon sun reflects the pinks, browns, and greens of the desert landscape against the tinted windows.

Classic rock fills up every empty space in the cramped back seat. The vehicle bounces in time with the heavy drumbeat. It could be louder, but Ava doesn’t want to test the limits of the speaker system.

The pale hand of the driver rises to adjust the rearview **mirror** until a pair of stormy grey eyes appear – they narrow in silent irritation. The pupils hover to the side, casting an envious glance at the passenger seat.

 _“Right now – girls' night out – and looking good is what it's all about.”_ Farah gestures wildly as she dances in her seat, scream-singing the lyrics. Her face replaces Morgan’s in the rearview **mirror**.

 _“She's gonna show what she's got – perfect little angel, is she not?”_ A second face joins Farah: a heavily pierced woman with deep gold skin, her hair done up in bright green bantu knots.

Morgan seethes in the intersection between the two – a thick black smog coalescing perfectly in the shape of a woman. She catches the reflection of a pair of sympathetic emerald eyes gazing at her through the **mirror**.

Farah begins to assault Morgan’s ear again. _“Gonna party until she drops, 'cause she's –”_

 _“Too hot! Too hot to stop!”_ It’s as though a pair of cymbals are slammed unceremoniously into the sides of Morgan’s head, causing it to throb slightly.

When Unit Bravo had been told they’d be accompanied by an Agent from the SPECTRE division, they hadn’t quite known what to expect. The Specters have quite the reputation within the Agency for being unreliable wild cards. They happen to be the only division in the Agency that is comprised exclusively of humans, and that alone is enough to irk Commanding Agent du Mortain.

She doesn’t usually expect much from human agents, but Agent Eshe Cooper – known less formally by the nickname “Trigger” – is said to be a Tier 4. She certainly doesn’t act the part, though.

“Why so glum, Mor’?” Trigger sticks her tongue out at the vampire. “This is _our playlist_! Remember?”

Morgan grimaces. “Oh, _I remember,_ ” she says with the enthusiasm of someone pulling gunk of a blocked out drain.

Trigger chuckles, her velvety voice getting lost in the guitar solo pulsing from the car speakers. She leans against Morgan’s shoulder. “Admit it; you _missed_ me.”

Farah’s eyebrow quirks in curiosity.

“Hop off my dick, Cooper. I’m not in the mood.”

Another sinister chuckle trickles down Morgan’s neck hotly. “As charming as I remember.”

All but sitting in Morgan’s lap, Farah interjects, “Wait! You two met before this assignment?”

Ava’s brow scrunches in concern as she watches her passengers climb all over each other.

Morgan clicks her tongue. “Cooper? Yeah, we go way back,” she says in a monotone.

“Back? Front? Sometimes even sideways…” Trigger muses. “I seem to recall you not having a preference.”

The concern twists into valleys of irritation carved into Ava’s forehead. She turns down the music. “We’re still on a mission. I’d appreciate it if you kept things professional.”

Morgan shoves Trigger’s legs, which have found their way onto her lap, back onto the ground, all while gently pushing Farah’s talkative face out of her personal space. She leans forward, arms resting on the backs of the two front seats. “How long until we get to the Agency bunker?”

Without taking her eyes off the road, Ava replies, “About an hour.”

“How bloody wonderful,” she grumbles, bowing her head in defeat, messy brown hair veiling her face.

Reclining against the window, Farah raises her legs across Morgan thighs and onto Trigger’s lap, playing along with the guitar solo. She bites her lips in concentration, willfully ignoring the haters – the haters being Morgan, whose head has shot to the side to give her the Look™.

“Turn it back up, du Mortain!” Trigger hugs the back of Ava’s seat.

The radio comes to life abruptly. The signal switches rapidly between stations, forming a string of coherent words. “ _Yeah_. Du. _Mortain_. What. _She._ Said.”

With inhuman agility, Ava’s head jerks to the right, where a child-sized porcelain doll, likely more ancient than most of the car’s occupants, sits, strapped securely in place by the seat belt. Its dirty stubby legs peek out from beneath a ratty old Victorian nightgown, long dyed grey by age; and its arms hang limp at its side.

That glorified doggy chew toy had been their objective; it had been terrorizing any family that came to possess it. The doll’s static face has turned in the blonde vampire’s direction. Its black unmoving eyes seem to hold a vague threat within them – not that Ava feels at all threatened by the thing.

With a sigh, the commanding agent’s fingers twist the volume knob on the dashboard – not to say that she’s happy being ordered around by a human and what is essentially a child-shaped ghost Tupperware – but anything would be preferable to listening to them nag.

Once again, she and Morgan share a weary look through the van’s rearview **mirror**. They have an excruciatingly long sixty minutes ahead of them.


	4. Strong

A wisp of smoke rises from the lit cigarette between Morgan’s fingers. Arms crossed over her chest and back resting against the pale siding of a classic farmhouse, she observes her teammate from behind a pair of black sunglasses.

Farah beams at her, twirling in her very official-looking pantsuit. “I look pretty legit, don’t I?” She smirks playfully, tugging at her suspenders with her thumbs.

White smoke slowly slithers through Morgan’s scarlet lips. “Sure do,” she says. “Let’s just get this over with.” She’s dressed similarly, in an open blazer, shirt unreasonably unbuttoned, and her crystal necklace tucked into her sun-speckled cleavage. The shirt had been buttoned when they left the Agency facility, but what Nat doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

She drops her cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushes it with the heel of her boot. The tail of her grey blazer floats along behind her as she takes long strides towards the porch of the home. She places a hand in the pocket of her slacks before ringing the doorbell.

It takes a couple of moments and lots of shuffling before the door opens. They’re met with a tiny woman in her late forties, her face dotted with moles. She looks the vampires up and down, blushing involuntarily, before uttering a rushed greeting. “Um… Can I help you?”

Farah flashes her a grin. “Hi! Is this Miss Langford?”

“Yes?” she stammers.

In a clearly practiced motion, Farah whips out a law enforcement badge. “Agent Hauville – FBI.”

Langford gives the badge a scrutinizing once over. “You’re FBI?”

Morgan lazily pulls out her own badge. “Yeah, we’re FBI.”

“I… Sorry, if this comes off as rude, but aren’t you a little young to be an FBI agent? You look like you’re barely out of college…” Langford gives Farah a pointed look.

The comment doesn’t even faze the vampire, who lets out a soft chuckle. “Oh, that’s so nice of you! I get that a lot.” She shrugs and places her badge back in the pocket of her coat. “I’m actually older than I look – a _lot_ older.” She chooses not to elaborate further, deliberately leaving Langford with an incredibly confused look on her face.

Morgan struggles to hold in a snort. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

That is a complete lie, however. This half of Unit Bravo has been tasked with keeping a certain Carrie Langford busy while the other half apprehends a rather mischievous spirit that has taken up residence in the old house.

It’s supposed to be an easy assignment – in and out in less than ten minutes. However, if everything goes to shit, Farah and Morgan are authorized to use their pheromones on Langford to keep her out of the loop.

_CRASH!_

An unnaturally powerful force sends Ava flying across the attic and through the circular window. She adjusts herself mid-air and lands in an athletic crouch. Strands of her straight blonde hair tickle the sides of her face, having come loose during her collision with the glass.

The house is big enough that _maybe_ Langford didn’t hear that. One can only hope.

“Are you alright?” Nat hisses, her head poking through the broken window on the uppermost floor. 

Ava rolls her shoulders as she gets back to her feet, watching the incorporeal presence that tackled her rise as well. It stands a mere few feet away from her on the dry grass of the spacious backyard. It has a good two feet on her and is comprised of what looks like black fog. Whatever it looks like, though, it does real damage. Her chest is still somewhat sore from the collision.

Every attack she makes seems to phase through it – its smoky essence shifting like ink swirling in water. She’s **strong** , but this feels like something physical strength just isn’t enough for. Especially when its eyes, the only discernable features of its face, seem to project faces and images from her dreams that she’d give anything to forget. This creature preys on her innermost anxieties – however deep she’s buried them, it plucks them back out with ease.

Suffice it to say, it has made things personal, which means it has to go down.

She hears a muffled thud as Nat drops into the grass behind the creature. She tenses when she sees Ava’s eyes lock onto her, a quiet anger bubbling in the emerald depths.

“Ava, focus!”

“I’m perfectly focused,” Ava replies through tightly clenched teeth. “Just stand ready. You know what to do.”

She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a heavy glossy white baton – a toy she’d gotten from Trigger. With a snap of her wrist, the baton unfurls to its full length, letting out red hot sparks as it does. She watches the phantom as it fidgets in place on two spindly onyx legs.

Without warning, Ava launches herself at the thing, slamming the baton into its smoky head. Rather than shifting out of the way, this blow seems to be brutally effective. Its shapeless body jitters like a car antenna before leaping out of the way of Ava’s next attack. But she’s relentless. She uses her vampire speed to her advantage, striking the phantom from all directions.

It is running out of avenues to escape. It seems to set its sights on Nat and leaps desperately at her, if only to relieve itself from Ava’s onslaught of damage. Just as its ghostly claw reaches for Nat’s face, it is stopped in its place abruptly. It bounces away from her as though there were an invisible wall, only to be flung back into another invisible wall.

The creature then stands dumbfounded in place, its eerie gaze shifting between Nat and Ava curiously.

Ava’s face lights up in a tired smile. She holds up her box of salt as though proposing a toast to Nat, who raises her own with an equally exhausted smile.

“Well, I call that a job well done!”

Nat and Ava’s faces turn abruptly to the sound of Farah’s voice. She and Morgan are approaching from the backdoor, their eyes on the smoke creature that is desperately trying to escape the salt circle.

Ava’s eyes narrow at them. “Where’s Langford.”

Farah hesitates for a moment. “Uh…” She glances at the suspicious look on Nat’s face and then at the hard line of Ava’s lips.

“I knocked her out,” Morgan says, cigarette between her lips. She flicks her lighter a couple of times to ignite it.

Farah grins uncertainly. “Morgan knocked her out.”

Rage bubbles within Ava’s chest. “You couldn’t distract her for ten minutes?”

Morgan doesn’t look the least bit disturbed by her leader’s outburst. “You were loud. Not like we had a choice.”

Nat’s brow furrows at Morgan. “Don’t tell me you knocked on Miss Langford’s door looking like that?” she asks, indicating Morgan’s disheveled appearance.

The incredulous scoff that bursts through Ava’s throat almost sounds like she’s coughing up a hairball. She glares at Nat, almost as if to say, “ _That_ is what you’re choosing to criticize in this moment?”

Nat ignores the look and regards her teammates. “Well, let’s call it in.”

Rebecca won’t be happy they had to knock a witness out, but it’s part of the job.

Ava’s eyes find their way to the creature again, to the two pale smokey eyes and the sad face looking back at her. Its abilities are weakened by the salt circle, but still manage to send jolts of panic bouncing off the bones in her ribcage. She shuts her eyes, willing the face to go away. But like a powerful memory, it doesn’t – it never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious face Ava saw may reappear in a later chapter ;) or it may appear in a different fic. Who knows. But I gotta add a teensy bit of mystery in there for you.


	5. Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: Brief mention of animal death

The frigid winter air hangs over Unit Bravo like a thick ooze, seeping into the fabrics of their warm coats and chilling them to their bones. None is more affected than Morgan, who’s managed to steal Ava’s scarf and gloves, asserting that the commanding agent should be able to keep herself warm using the friction in her jaw alone.

The only illumination on this rusted bridge is the light from the Agency SUV, which is more for Rebecca’s benefit than her team’s. Said team has split up to patrol the eerily dark town. The only member she still has eyes on is Morgan, who has been lingering near the SUV to make sure that nothing tries to attack Rebecca – that and the headlights provide a certain amount of warmth that has otherwise been sapped from this place.

The town has been abandoned for a couple of decades, having been cleared out by the Agency under the guise of “containing a deadly contaminant” The truth is that a strong spectral presence had been detected within, posing a deadly risk to the inhabitants, and it’s been gathering dust on SPECTRE’s to-do list ever since.

It’s a nice enough town during the day – at least aesthetically, it is, with its romantic cobbled market road and the quaint neighborhood, its houses the colors of a sunset. The tangled thorny vines of a rosebush hanging limply off the bridge supports feel like an ill omen, where once they must have been a warm welcome. With a name like Anarchy, though, the town isn’t exactly doing itself any favors. The town has seen mysterious mass suicides, disappearances, murder cults… just to name a few highlights of its decorated past. The Agency has considered the usual suspects, but ultimately, all evidence points to ghosts.

“Oh! Gross!” Farah’s voice chirps from Rebecca’s earpiece. “This is place is rank as hell!”

Rebecca turns her radio on. “Give me a visual, Agent Hauville. What are you looking at?”

“Some kind of… dead animal. A lot of dead animals. Like a whole pile of dead animals.”

“Are you picking up on anything with the EMF meter?”

Farah hums, pausing for a moment. “Nope. These are pretty old.”

Each member of Unit Bravo has their own camera on their person for this assignment as the town is too large to cover without splitting up. Rebecca brings up Farah’s feed on the screen in front of her – as expected, though, it’s hard to see details.

Ava’s feed is similarly uneventful – the static landscape of the town looks like it could have been ripped directly from a horror film. The buildings had been evacuated in such a rush that cars and belongings are still littered across the street. Weeds grow out from within the cracks in the asphalt, wrapping around discarded appliances, children’s toys, and even furniture.

“All clear,” Ava’s cool, clipped words sound off, almost as though she knew that she was being monitored by her boss at that moment.

Rebecca switches over to Nat’s feed and sighs. The feed has gone dead.

“Agent Sewell, report.”

No response.

“Agent Sewell. Is everything alright?”

She sighs and fastens her gun and her salt to her belt before sliding the door to the SUV open and climbing out.

Morgan’s eyes snap to her as she approaches. “What’s going on?” she asks through cigarette smoke.

“Agent Morgan, I need you to come with me to check on Agent Sewell.”

The vampire’s relaxed posture tenses immediately. “Nat’s missing?”

Rebecca sighs. “I want to believe it is just her equipment malfunctioning. She is… not the most technologically literate. Nonetheless, it is better to be cautious.”

Morgan doesn’t need any coaxing to get going. She and Rebecca move rapidly in the direction of the town square, which had been Nat’s responsibility. Morgan’s hypersenses are on high alert, scrutinizing each dark corner and shadow with brutal efficiency. Rebecca does her part as well, pointing her flashlight and gun in every direction all while trying to keep up with Morgan’s swift pace.

The town square must once have been stunning. There is a large fountain in the center with an onyx statue resembling two children playing. It must be quite elegant when the fountain and streetlights are turned on. Under the **moonlight** , however, the children’s eyes seem to watch their approach with more interest than statues ought to have.

“Where’s Nat?”

Morgan is the first to say what they’re both thinking aloud. As big as the square is, she can’t have gone that far.

“Agent du Mortain, Agent Hauville,” Rebecca says into her radio. “Meet us at the town square.”

“Understood.”/ “Roger that!”

She then turns to Morgan and says sternly, “Check the buildings.”

Morgan hesitates, shifting her weight. It’s clear she’s deliberating whether it’s fine to leave the very human Agent all alone here. “You… gonna be okay, boss?”

“Your concern is unnecessary, Morgan,” Rebecca says. Her tone is firm, but her lips lift slightly in a grateful smile.

With that, Morgan makes her way across the square to a large brick building on the far left. The exterior must have been a warm terracotta red at some point, but something that looks like black mold has been oozing out of the cracks, painting it a disgusting shade of dark grey. The scent overpowers her senses, making it hard to breathe.

She slams her boot into the door, causing it to slam against the wall with a loud crack. More than just mold, it carries the putrid scent of death. Not the rot and decomposition a human might expect, but the pure essence of death itself. Unless you were a supernatural with incredibly powerful senses, you would not be able to perceive it. Each supernatural has its particular scent, and this is the scent of powerful spiritual presences.

She wraps Ava’s scarf over her mouth and nose – the scent still penetrates the fabric, but it’s slightly more tolerable this way.

Her attention is drawn by the sound of clattering coming through the ceiling. It might not be Nat, but there’s something on the top floor for sure.

The post office itself is a complete mess. Packages sit discarded behind the counter; there is something melancholy about the sentiments left frozen in time within the paper packaging, never to reach their intended recipients – not that Morgan cares enough to be moved by such a thing. All she cares about is navigating her way across postcard racks and overturned plastic chairs.

The door to the second floor is open – unsurprising if Nat indeed managed to make her way over here. Not only that, but the sound of the clattering gets louder. She follows the trail to a sturdy looking door. This one, however, is locked.

Morgan growls and bangs her fist against the door. “Nat! You in there?”

Worryingly, she gets no answer.

She sighs and stretches idly, loosening her limbs before ramming her entire body into the door. To her frustration, it does not budge in the least. She feels it creak under the force, but it bounces back completely undamaged. It takes her a few more tries to come to the annoying conclusion that brute force was simply not going to work on this door – well, maybe if Ava were there… but she’s not.

“Alright, you pussy bitch!” she hollers into the indestructible wood. “You wanna fight someone, come fight me!” It’s inelegant, but it’s what feels right at that moment.

She hears a dull thud on the other side of the door followed by a scratching noise that grates at her hypersensitive hearing. Well, yelling into the void seems to be doing _something_.

She growls. “Fuck you! I know you’re in there! If you don’t open this _goddamn_ door right now –” She cuts herself off by punching the door. It’s still in one piece, so whatever is holding it together, doesn’t seem willing to let up any time soon.

The scratching at the door grows ever more insistent, but the door remains tightly shut. The sound almost begins to resemble a laugh track in a sitcom, scraping across her every nerve.

“You think you’re real funny, don’t you?” she snarls. “Won’t be so funny when the Agency puts your clown ass in ghost jail.”

She reaches for the doorknob to rattle it menacingly but finds an unexpected lack of resistance. The knob turns easily in her hands and the door swings open.

Nat stands dumbfounded on the other side, holding a large crystal in her closed fist. It’s pure black and radiates a powerful heat – a sealing crystal developed by Agency scientists; it is pure white when empty but turns a murky venomous black when filled with spectral energy.

Morgan suddenly feels a bit foolish at her previous outburst and takes a wide step away from the door. “Oh, so you’re in here,” she mumbles quietly, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

A smile spreads across Nat’s face. “Yes, I am.”

“I…” Morgan clears her throat. “Good. That’s good.”

“I won’t tell anyone about what I heard.”

“You’d better not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Morgan is my new passion.


	6. Broken

Walking through the basement of the very much abandoned Sacred Grove hospital feels more like walking through a maggot-filled corpse left to fester in its own juices. The air is musty with putrid humidity and rot.

For the thousandth time, Nat pulls a strand of her ponytail to her nose and sniffs it anxiously, as though the scent would entangle itself in her dark brown tresses and refuse to come out. She sighs and keeps her focus on following in Farah through the darkened halls. She envies Morgan, who’d been relieved of accompanying them due to how the stench was affecting her. Ava had also been quick to volunteer to patrol the upper levels of the hospital. So much for “fearless leader”

So, it’s just Nat and Farah, and the impregnable darkness.

“Hey!” Farah’s voice bounces off the walls several times on its way to Nat. “Check this room out!” Her head is poking out through a doorway, a goofy grin on her face.

Nat follows after her, keeping an uncertain grip on the camera, trying her best not to press any of the buttons. Why do modern cameras have so many buttons anyway? The only button on a camera _should_ be the button that takes the photo. So why, then, does it need a knob that adjusts the focus? Shouldn’t everything be in focus by default? And “wi-fi”? Why, pray tell, does a camera need wi-fi?

As she steps into the doorway, a chill runs down her spine. She rubs the goosebumps along her arm with her free hand. It’s unlikely to be a draft. Nat concludes that Farah may have stumbled upon an area steeped in spiritual energy.

A quick inspection confirms that conclusion, however. The room is bare save for a chair in the center of the room, fixed with worn leather restraints. There is a surgical tray atop a cart with rusted tools. The walls are dull concrete, stained with blood as well as other unknown substances. Whatever happened here, it’s no surprise it left a lasting impression on the space.

The radio on Nat’s belt comes to life all at once, sending her heart leaping into her throat.

Farah, who is already wandering within the room, circling the chair, shifts her attention to Nat. “Huh? Did that turn on all on its own?”

At first the words sound jumbled and vague, like listening to a language you’re familiar with but not fluent in and being unable to keep up. Then the words begin to get more insistent.

“Two.” – “Br--vo!” – “One.” – “Less.”

The radio turns off.

Farah squeals in delight. “It said Bravo!”

Nat frowns. “One… less…” she mumbles.

“Hey, ghosts!” Farah loudly calls into the empty room. “Say something else!”

She gets no response.

“C’mon! What’re you? Chicken?”

Again, no response.

“Let’s not antagonize them,” Nat gently suggests.

Farah’s gaze moves over to the chair. She waggles her eyebrows at Nat. “I bet you the energy in this chair is bananas high.”

Before Nat can reply, Farah has planted her butt snugly in the seat, running her hands over the splintered armrests. She begins to run her fingers along the leather restraints.

“No.” Nat frowns.

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“C’mon! What’s the worst that could happen? Not like these spirits are powerful enough to kill me.” She grins mischievously at Nat, looking almost like a ghost herself with her unruly curls falling into her eyes.

Nat looks around, almost as though searching for someone to validate her hesitation, but of course, there’s nobody else there.

It’s just her, Farah, and the impregnable darkness. And well, it’s not like the darkness is about to talk her teammate out of this.

“Fine. But only for a few minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes!”

“Ten minutes.”

“Deal.”

Nat sighs heavily, setting the camera down on the surgical tray before getting to work on the leather restraints. “Are the restraints really necessary?” she says, her voice laced with worry.

Once the restraints have been fastened, Farah tugs on them. “Absolutely necessary. Now get over by the door and keep the camera on me in case anything cool happens!”

Nat’s brow furrows as she picks the camera up again and does as she’s been told. She points it at her companion as she’d been instructed.

Neither of them speaks for a time; nothing but the distant sounds of footsteps and the scuttling of the rats which have infested the place. Nat finds it more eerie than she’d like to admit, and a bit masochistic on Farah’s part. The younger vampire seems to find this all enjoyable, as though it were a silly game – make-believe even. Nat, on the other hand, has never really had a taste for the macabre, and finds the baiting of spirits in this way to be somewhat tactless.

For the second time that night, Nat’s bones are rattled by a sudden noise. Her earpiece comes to life and Ava’s voice comes through. “Nat, are you there?”

She presses the button on her radio to respond, sounding more breathless than she intends. “Yes, Ava. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. “Ava hesitates. “Are you aware your camera has turned off?”

Nat frowns. “It’s off? Well, that certainly isn’t good.”

Farah, whose hypersenses must have picked up on Ava’s words, leans forward in the seat. “Just turn it back on!”

Nat holds the camera up, rotating it slowly between her long fingers. The device is infuriatingly complex. There are buttons on almost every single surface, each labelled with symbols that she couldn’t possibly decipher. She hesitantly pokes at some of the buttons, humming thoughtfully as the device continues to do nothing.

“Is it on?” she mumbles.

“Nat, look at me!” Farah calls out to her. “There’s a knob on top! You need to move the knob to the icon that looks like a camera.” She speaks incredibly slowly, but, as she looks into Nat’s eyes, she can almost physically see the words go in one ear and out the other.

The camera does seem to have a few buttons on top, as well as what looks like a knob – _two_ knobs in fact! And the icons along the circumference all seem to resemble cameras in one way or another – such is the nature of this device. She sighs in defeat. “They all look the same, Farah…”

“Just turn the knob!”

“Which knob!”

“There’s only one knob, Nat!”

“No, there clearly isn’t!”

Farah’s eyes shut in a rare instance of frustration. “Nat. It’s the one knob. It’s right under the focus wheel.”

“THE WHAT?!” Nat snaps. She holds the camera up, staring intently at the buttons on top, as though staring hard enough would reveal some sort of hidden compartment or clue.

“Like behind it!”

“Farah, are we talking about the same thing?”

It is then that, without any further intervention on Nat’s part, the aperture opens, and the lens mechanically emerges with a low whir.

She lets out a delighted laugh. “Oh, I think it worked!”

“Great job, Natkins!” It’s hard for the incredibly genuine Farah to mask the sigh of relief beneath her words.

Nat looks into the viewfinder, pointing the camera back in Farah’s direction. It’s hard to see her through the night-vision green hues that litter the shot like a well-worn letter filled with wrinkles. Nat wonders again why such devices are even necessary – one can’t even see properly through them. She understands to some extent why humans might use them, but her eyes are so much more reliable. If one needs a detailed testimony on what she’s witnessed, they need only to ask; she’s perfectly capable of providing it with minute detail.

As she idly watches Farah aimlessly kick her legs, which dangle off the edge of the seat, she notices the lighting grow dim. She removes the camera from her eye and looks back at Farah, but it must have been a trick of the lights or the camera malfunctioning, as nothing seems amiss to her.

She looks into the camera once more and finds a giant mass blocking her vision of Farah. It seems to be a head, with sickly white skin and sunken eyes. The face is framed by oily black hair that seems to cling to its hollow cheeks. Nat’s heart begins to beat erratically in her chest – her muscles stiffen completely. And she can’t look away.

The corners of its mouth, cracked and dry and just as pale as the rest of its skin, begins to tilt upwards. It bares its teeth at her – chipped, yellow, and rotting. It then mouths three words. “You’re. Welcome. Bravo.”

It is then that Nat feels the paralysis in her muscles slip away, and all at once, her whole body relaxes – including her grip on the camera. Almost as though she’d forgotten how to firmly grasp objects, the device slips through her fingers and drops to the ground with a soft yet devastating clatter.

“Nat!” Farah’s groan is more like a quiet scream. “Is it **broken**? Quick! Check if it’s still working!”

Dread and remorse instantly begin to sink into Nat’s bones. She and the camera may have had their fair share of differences, but there was certainly no need for this night to end in bloodshed. She drops to a crouch and gently takes the camera into her hands, cradling it as one would a child.

“How…” She inhales sharply, deeply annoyed at how shallow her knowledge was on such things. “How do I know if it’s working?”

Farah sputters helplessly for a moment. “You… You press the…” She sighs, her amber eyes meeting Nat’s brown ones in a solemn look of understanding. “Just untie me.”


	7. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a bit grim dark. I've updated the story tags accordingly.
> 
> Trigger Warnings for:   
> \- Death  
> \- Needles

Walking into SPECTRE HQ feels more like walking into an alien spaceship or an Apple store. Sure, Agency facilities tend to be minimalistic and sterile, but its more out of practicality than anything else. In the case of the enormous underground SPECTRE facility, the blinding whiteness seems to serve more of an aesthetic purpose – the only splashes of color are the orchids blooming in planters on nearly every empty wall. SPECTRE personnel, in their white jumpsuits, go about their business not paying the newcomers any mind.

Unit Bravo and their Specter escort, Agent Cooper, stand out like ink on the ivory fabric of the facility. Each of the vampires regards their surroundings with different emotions, confusion, repulsion, fascination, amusement… This doesn’t change the ever-present frown on Rebecca’s face as she allows her team to be led across the massive underground common area.

Morgan, who’d had her cigarettes confiscated at the door, feels the loss of her lifeline very deeply. Her whole face is twisted in revulsion at the sickly-sweet floral scent that hovers in the air like toxic gas. Her irritation simmers at the bottom of her gut, leaving her even less talkative than usual – she hasn’t even interrupted Trigger’s tour once to let out snide remarks.

“How come you don’t have to dress like that?” Farah asks Trigger. She’d never seen so many people with their hair cropped short or in tight professional buns. Give Ava a white jumpsuit and she’d fit right in with this lot.

Trigger, on the other hand, is dressed in loose black cargo pants, dull silver chain loops dangling from the pockets, and a black long-sleeved turtleneck crop top. The only color on her is the neon pink nail-polish, and the pink yarn woven into her braids.

She scrunches up her nose at the question directed at her. “Oh, Charlie runs a tight ship, but she lets the field agents dress however they want. And thank goodness for that! Can you imagine me in white?” She shudders.

The group stops in front of a high-security door and Trigger pulls out her Agency ID. It is identical to the ID that each member of Unit Bravo carries, except that it says “SPECTRE” in metallic block letters across the bottom. She runs the ID along the scanner and waits. It only takes a few seconds for it to emit a high-pitched _beep_ and for the door to slide open.

The door leads them into a space that is less sterile but no less cold or white. They enter into a space shaped like a champagne glass – a long hallway leading into a half-moon chamber. The room is completely bare save for a white secretary’s desk, a large gold trimmed white door, and the two orchid planters along either side of it. The secretary themself is nowhere to be seen.

Nat frowns, wondering how they manage to keep each of the orchids, a notoriously fickle flower, in bloom at the same time. That is not to say that it isn’t… lovely in its own way. It just comes across as excessively meticulous. She’d even go as far as to say that it feels soulless – like a rose garden planted to hide the stench of blood and death.

“Something on your mind, Nat?”

Nat finds Ava at her side, gazing curiously at her. “Oh. Nothing to worry about. Just lost in thought.”

Ava gives her a satisfied nod before returning to Rebecca’s side.

With an exaggerated flourish towards the door, Trigger says, “The director is just through here.”

When she knocks on the pale wood, Trigger’s entire demeanor changes. Gone is the playful tone she’d been using with Unit Bravo, and in its place is a steady professional tone that would put Ava to shame. “Director Chance, this is Agent Cooper. Unit Bravo is here to see you.”

As Trigger’s words fade out, an uncertain silence filters in into the room in its place. It seeps in through their nostrils and wraps their lungs in plastic wrap, and none dare to break it. The only movement comes from Farah, who fidgets in place waiting for something – _anything_ – to happen.

Almost a whole minute later, they hear the amplified sound of a click and the doors swing inwards. A rush of strong floral incense fills the vampires’ senses, and all at once, they double over in pain, coughing to get the musty air out of their lungs. It takes a few seconds for the scent to settle evenly about the chamber and for Unit Bravo to adjust.

None of them are pleased, but Morgan looks about ready to tear someone’s head off. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her fangs are clearly visible in the snarl on her face. It takes Farah gently hooking her arm around Morgan’s to turn down the heat burning in her chest.

Out of the dust, emerges a tall figure, made up of sharp angles and even sharper contrasts. A single glance at her, and you can tell exactly why the facility looks the way it does. Her skin is an unpigmented porcelain white – her hair, styled in an elegant half-do, resembles fresh snow as it cascades down her shoulders. She’s dressed in straight pastel pink pants and a simple ruffled dress shirt. Her face is completely untouched by makeup, making her bright violet eyes even more prominent.

Farah tightens her grip on Morgan – just in case. She notes that this director appears a lot younger than what she’d expected for someone who is responsible for a whole division of the Agency. She’d pictured someone at least as old as Rebecca. This woman is hardly older than thirty.

The entirety of Unit Bravo notices the subtle way Rebecca’s shoulders stiffen as she waits. Her heart thuds so hard in her chest that she’s fortunate that the only vampires here are on her side.

“Director Chance,” Rebecca says, her tone clipped. “Always a pleasure.”

Chance’s lips twitch in a wry smile as she saunters towards Rebecca. She takes the older woman’s hand in her own and lifts it to her lips. “Rebecca. How many times have I told you? Please, call me Charlotte.”

Rebecca slips her hand out of Chance’s as though she were made of slime. “That’s quite a strong stench. Surely you knew you would be entertaining vampires today?” Her tone is light and professional, but the edge of her stilettos is camouflaged within.

The unapologetic chuckle that comes from Chance causes every single one of Ava’s nerves to grow taut. The cloudy, violet eyes give the vampires each a cursory once over. “In this case, let’s speak elsewhere.” She doesn’t spare the members of Unit Bravo a second glance as she breezes past them towards the door. As she does, she waves a manicured hand at Trigger. “You’re dismissed, Agent Cooper.”

Trigger’s eyes briefly meet Farah’s. She closes them apologetically before bowing her head and briskly walking ahead. Farah can’t help the chilling sensation that washes over her – like they’d been left in a snowstorm without jackets and Trigger was the last match in the matchbox.

Chance hardly makes small talk as she leads the group back into the common area. Any warmth she attempts to emulate is a poor cover for the ice inside of her.

“So, Unit Bravo,” she says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“All good things, we hope!” Nat says, but her half-hearted stab at levity comes across more like someone placing a candle atop a frozen lake and expecting it to make a difference. That is to say, it doesn’t.

Nonetheless, Chance chuckles again – projecting the sensation a of hot wax melting over their skin. “Rebecca, how’s your daughter? Is she well?” She turns halfway to look at Rebecca. “Is she still in that backwater town? What did you say its name was?”

Rebecca cuts her off before she can say anything else. “Wayhaven. Yes, she’s working on her bachelor’s degree in journalism.”

Chance smiles. “Journalism! How quaint!”

She moves like a portrait that was never meant to move, like paint trying to shift against a dry canvas. Each step she takes along the way is carefully deliberated, as though stepping on the wrong floor tile would lay her innermost secrets bare.

The clicking of her ivory heels against the tiles echoes in the hall as they pass into the medical wing. The scent of flowers is muted here, replaced with the familiar clean scent the vampires are accustomed to.

She leads them into one of the patient rooms, and for the first time since their arrival, they are met with a view that that isn’t planned by the inch. The room looks well lived in. There are crumpled magazines on the end table next to the couch. Someone has apparently left a juice box on a seat. There is a bouquet of flowers on the table next to the bed.

The patient in question is a young man with warm bronze skin and black curls, slick with sweat. He is **sleeping** soundly – or at least that’s how he appears upon a first glance. His heart-rate monitor beeps gently in the background.

Chance reaches forward, gingerly moving a strand of the man’s hair out of his face, with a tenderness that makes the guests doubt that the woman standing before them is the very same they’d met outside this room. They pick up on the way her human heartbeat seems to shudder before growing steady again.

The vampires turn their eyes on Rebecca for guidance. She is hesitant to break the silence in the room, but nonetheless speaks up. “Director Chance, why have you brought us here?”

Chance straightens her back again and smooths down her shirt. “This man is my predecessor, former Director Aryan. He has been in this comatose state for nearly twenty years.” She pauses again, but this time, Rebecca waits for her to speak again. “He was… _is_ a good man. His guidance made SPECTRE what it is today. There wasn’t a single agent that didn’t trust him implicitly – myself included.”

There is emotion in Chance’s voice now – genuine emotion. Rebecca cannot blame her. She hardly remembers Aryan – she hadn’t been very highly ranked when he’d been active – but she remembers his reputation throughout the Agency. She’d always assumed he had died. That year hangs in a darkened corner of her mind like an old moth-eaten coat she doesn’t have the heart to get rid of; it coincides with the year that Rook had been killed in action. The bitter thorn in her chest twists when she remembers her husband’s fate. She watches the same hint of recognition as it flashes across Ava, Nat, and Morgan’s eyes.

“How did he –” Farah claps a hand to her mouth. Like most things in the Agency, this is probably classified.

She isn’t sure if she’s just imagined the anger that crosses those amethyst eyes. It’s barely even a twitch of her brow. “He was taken down while saving a rookie agent. She took on more than she could handle.” Her voice shakes on the last word. “He allowed a powerful entity to enter his body on that day. We believe he’s in this state because he’s fighting against the possession even now. Otherwise, the spirit would have taken control of his body. He’s containing it as much as it is containing him.”

There is a question written all over Farah’s face. Twenty years living in an unending nightmare…

Chance’s face softens. “He, as a director, had a much more hands-on approach than I do. But he’s only human.”

She trails her fingers along his arm lightly until they reach the IV catheter in his arm. She tenderly strokes the spot before digging into her pant pocket. She pulls out a syringe filled with a clear liquid. Her gentle gaze falls upon Aryan’s **sleeping** face again.

“What’s that?” Nat asks breathlessly.

Chance is completely unmoved by the question. “Something for the pain…”

She places the needle up against Aryan’s IV and presses down on the plunger.

Unit Bravo doesn’t need the heart-rate monitor to hear how Aryan’s heart begins to beat rapidly against his chest like a caged animal. His body lurches in place, and all the while, Chance strokes the side of his face with unbelievable calmness. The ordeal halts time as they watch it – whether they’d been standing in horror for hours or minutes or seconds, they couldn’t know.

And finally, the uninterrupted tone of the heart-rate monitor is all that’s left of Director Aryan.

Chance moves around the bed to switch the machine off. She turns to Unit Bravo and Rebecca, with renewed vigor. “You must be wondering why I’ve called you here to bear witness to such a… ghoulish display.”

“You killed him!” Farah can’t help but blurt, unable to stop her body from shivering. Sure, Unit Bravo has seen a lot worse than this, but listening to that man’s heart stop beating made their own hearts want to shrivel and hide for fear they’d suffer the same fate.

Ava’s hands squeeze into fists, hardly even trying to hide the pure contempt in her icy green eyes. Even the cool and collected Nat drops her polite façade, unable to muster up the energy to lift her expression. And Morgan has grabbed Farah’s hand and is squeezing tightly so as not to launch herself at this woman.

Farah’s words go ignored by Chance, whose eyes meet Rebecca’s. “I want to make it very clear that I won’t be making the same mistakes as my predecessor. And I want to offer my warmest welcome to Unit Bravo. We have a lot of work to do; don’t disappoint me.”

With that, she elegantly maneuvers her way past Unit Bravo and out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise this isn't gonna mark a permanent shift in tone for the series. But I did want some plot out of the way.   
> Also I'm a spooky bitch who likes to write horror so like....... idk what I expected of myself.


	8. Villain

_CRASH!_

A distorted shadow flies into a bookcase, shattering it completely. In a blur of motion, it turns on all fours and cranes its long neck up, smokey white eyes reflecting the moonlight. All is silent save for an insistent clicking noise.

The creature scans the room, searching for any signs of movement. It is a small and unremarkable child’s bedroom, but it looks like a tornado has just gone through it. The creature skulks forward cautiously, its body shifting from side to side in a manner so jarring that it resembles a glitch in the fabric of reality.

Standing near the window is Morgan, her body so still it could be mistaken for a part of the room’s decor. She holds her breath, eyes darting around the room to plan her escape route. She can fight this creature off for a time, but it’s too strong to take on without backup.

She wrinkles her nose and gags silently when she unconsciously gets a whiff of the thing. Pure death concentrate. Goddamn delightful. The sooner this thing is dealt with, the better. Curiously, she raises her forearm to her nose and sniffs. _Ugh, it’s gotten on my clothes, too._

So, here’s the current plan: Morgan has no plan.

The original plan had been for Farah to be the bait; she would lead the thing into a trap where Ava and Morgan would be waiting to kick its ass. And Nat would use the sealing crystal when it’s weakened enough to succumb to it without shattering it.

Turns out this thing is a _lot_ stronger than they were expecting – faster too; it could easily keep up with Farah, which means she was taken out of commission early on in the fight. Ava’s professional tactical advice was to run like hell and try not to get cornered.

Morgan has never really been good at following advice.

She tried to fight it but found it hard to catch her breath; it packs a hell of a punch and it doesn’t look like it’s going to run out of stamina anytime soon. She does realize one thing, however. This shadow creature can only see movement and relies mainly on its hearing. It can’t see Morgan right now.

New plan: wait for it to leave and hope that Ava’s come up with something.

In a rare moment of calm, Morgan allows herself to observe the way the creature moves. It walks on four appendages, in quite the same way a monkey does, but the way it leans forward with its back arched reminds her of a panther. Whatever it touches is stained in the same tar-like substance that she can smell on her clothing. It is as though it is rotting the floor beneath it as it walks, spreading its corruption like a disease.

Morgan’s heart leaps out of her chest when her earpiece crackles, and she hears Farah’s voice come through. She can’t say it isn’t a relief that Farah has managed to heal enough to start bugging her again, but the relief is dampened by the sight of the shadow creature snapping its head in Morgan’s direction. Clearly, she isn’t the only one surprised to hear Farah’s voice.

“Hey, Morgan. Where are you at? Did you find it?”

A sheepish expression crosses Morgan’s face as she watches the creature crouch low, preparing to pounce. She cocks her head to the side and gives it a look as if to say, “Maybe let’s put this conflict behind us and go our separate ways, hm?”

It doesn’t seem to agree with her.

“Morgan?” Farah repeats.

Morgan places a finger to her radio and grunts, “A little busy here.”

As the creature leaps at her, she leaps in return, meeting it halfway and managing to tackle it and roll off of it so that their positions are reversed. Now that she’s on the other side of the room, she dashes out of the room, picking directions at random as she enters the darkened hallway.

Ava is in her ear now. “Where. Are. You?”

“Upstairs.”

“Could you be more detailed?”

“No.”

She can’t hear the shadow creature’s pursuit – its feet make no sound – but she can hear the clicking noise, echoing in her ears and filling the place in her head where her thoughts ought to be. It forces her to run on pure instinct, a feeling she does not enjoy at all.

The shadows on the wall are catching up with her. They branch and extend like veins, pulsing like a heartbeat. The house is alive, and this shadow has full control over it.

One question worms its way into her mind: Just how long is this hallway anyway?

For all she knows, she’s been running through what should be a short hallway for at least a few minutes at a superhuman speed. It’s not a big house; it’s a two-story three bedroom.

_Oh, motherfucker._

Morgan plants one foot on the ground and pivots around to face the creature. Immediately, it rushes to tackle her. Hooking her arms behind its limbs, she uses its own momentum against it and tosses it backwards. She then gets back to her feet, challenging it with her intense gaze

“What the hell is your deal?” she cries in frustration.

It clicks softly in response, walking over to her cautiously.

“If you’re trying kill me, you’re doing a piss poor job of it!”

It seems to be distracted by her yelling. It rises so that it is sitting on its hind legs. Its snakelike neck waves around idly as it listens.

She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. “So, you injure Farah, and now you wanna play with me?”

_“She’sss a vampire… She’ll heal…”_

The sound it makes is like whistles between the clicks. It’s soft, but Morgan has no problem picking up on it with her amplified hearing sense. She smirks. “It speaks.”

_“You are intriguing, vampire… Your mind hides nothing…”_

She scowls at that. “Don’t go poking around where you don’t belong, parasite.”

_“I’m not a **villain** , vampire…”_

She scoffs. “And what are you?”

 _“A tourissst…”_ There is a wryness in its tone. _“Not of thisss world…”_

“Well, go home then.”

The clicking gets louder, almost as though it were laughing at her. It sinks into the ground, like a shadow buried between the floorboards, and emerges right in front of her. Standing at its full height, it towers over her.

 _“You have more fearsssome **villains** to face than meee,” _it tells her. Its voice is now a whisper in her ear. Her foggy grey eyes widen. She doesn’t dare say a word to interrupt it. _“Onesss that hide not in the shadowsss on the wallsss, but in the shadowsss of your mind…”_

With that, the creature drops into the floorboards again, but this time, much more permanently.

She takes another sniff of her clothing. The thing smells like pure shit. She’s probably gonna burn these clothes when she gets back to the facility and take a nice long shower, too.

“Morgan!”

She hears footsteps behind her and feels something small crash into her back. Upon turning around, she is met with Farah, her face a mask of pure worry.

“Hey! We tried to talk to you, but you stopped answering.”

Ava and Nat come up after her, their faces concerned and curious in equal measure. Nat smiles in relief upon concluding that Morgan is unharmed, whereas Ava crosses her arms and puts on her usual expression of vague displeasure.

Morgan pulls out her earpiece, finding it caked in the essence of that shadow. No wonder it wasn’t working.

“Did you see where it went?” Nat asks.

“It’s gone,” Morgan is quick to answer. “Just disappeared.”

“Well, _Charlie_ isn’t gonna be happy about that!” Farah grumbles, her face twisting in distaste at the thought of that horrifying woman.

Morgan’s thoughts drift to the shadow creature’s final words to her. She can’t shake the odd sense of foreboding that trickles down her spine.

_You have more fearsome **villains** to face than me; ones that hide not in the shadows on the walls, but in the shadows of your mind._

What a load of garbage. She lights a cigarette.


	9. Fight

It always begins in darkness.

A tentative footstep forwards.

A slow and steady inhale.

A melody, lilting and melancholy.

The wind wraps Ava in its chilling caress, like the ghostly hands of a lover, dancing around her and beckoning her into the abyss. She follows. She does not know where it leads or who the bittersweet piper is, but her actions have never been her own.

The overwhelming scent of vanilla and spice is carried by the wind. Rose petals whisper across her skin – a playful giggle.

She’s running now, eyes tearing up from the air as it batters her face.

The voice is louder. She should know better than to chase after a siren – to submit herself so fully to a phantom. This… yearning – it’s not real. It’s a weakness that so deeply entwined in her soul, built into the architecture of her heart.

The sound of the ocean rushes against her body, submerging her completely. The light is just there at the end of the tunnel, beckoning. The music grates against her ears now – repetitive and desperate – a distress call that draws the threads of her heart taut against her ribcage.

A hand reaches out to her. She can almost see the two lips producing that lovely song just out of her reach. That face…

She halts her pursuit at a cliff’s edge. Above her, she sees a dreamy twilight sky; below her, the waves beat stubbornly against the rocks. She toes the dirt with her boot as something else grips her. The song is gone; her only companion is the wind, and it encircles her limbs, her torso, her neck like the coiling branches of a rosebush, thorns puncturing her skin.

Breathlessly clawing at her throat, she chokes out a single word. “ _PAPA!_ ”

All at once the vines relinquish their hold on her, receding like frightened serpents at the sound of her shrill cry. When she opens her eyes, the ocean is gone, and in its place, she finds the simple décor of her facility bedroom.

Her hand instinctively goes to her throat – the vines are still there even if she can’t feel them. In the silence of the empty room, she can still hear the rushing water and the ocean breeze.

She sighs and stretching the sleep out of her body before getting to her feet. She lets her mind conjure up the phantom from the Langford house, how it had pried its fingers into cracks in Ava’s mind so miniscule that no other supernatural has been able to breach them.

She finds herself, much to her own surprise, wandering to the facility library. She wishes she’d tried to look for Nat before coming here; she’d surely have wanted to come help. Ava, however, finds herself almost embarrassed to ask. She slips quietly into the aisle on the undead, unsure of what she’s looking for.

She runs her fingers down the many volumes and tomes, all with names she cannot decipher. All it does is make her feel Nat’s absence sorely.

“Need help with that?”

The voice is so abrupt it makes her body tense. To her right, she sees a human man leaning against one of the many sections. He’s tall for a human – about as tall as Nat – with broad shoulders; his face, the color of warm mahogany, is framed by loose black waves. He frowns at her silence.

“Oh, sorry to startle you.” He’s _human_. He shouldn’t have startled her. “I recognized you from SPECTRE HQ. You’re in Unit Bravo, right?”

She winces at the memory. When Ava finds her voice, it is stiff and dry, “Commanding Agent du Mortain.”

He nods respectfully and extends a hand in greeting. “Commanding Agent Holmes. But my team just calls me Rhode. You’ve met my second in command, Agent Cooper.”

She carefully deliberates the hand hovering before her, and before she can make her decision, Rhode places the hand back on his chest and bows apologetically.

“No worries,” he says. His high cheekbones rise in a smile.

She nods gratefully. “It’s a pleasure, Agent Holmes.”

“So.” He takes a step closer to her. “Again, I must ask. Anything I can do to help?” He gestures to the books on the shelves beside her. “’The undead’ – I’m assuming this is related to your work for Director Chance?”

“No.”

“No?”

Her jaw tenses. She hadn’t meant to say that. “I mean…”

Rhode turns away from Ava and crosses his arms. “I see Nat in here pretty often actually. We’re actually – uhh – well acquainted. How is she, by the way?”

She shakes her head at his very transparent attempt to change the topic, but plays along, nonetheless. “She’s well. She’s… never mentioned you.”

He hisses in mock pain, clutching his chest. “Oh, the agony!”

Ava feels a genuine smile warm up her face. She averts her gaze. “I was hoping to read about the enemies we will be facing. Agent Cooper has been helpful, but we’ve been caught off guard far too many times.”

“Yeah, they’ll do that.” His voice trails off as he looks over the titles of the books in front of him. “Did you know, Agent du Mortain, that not all of what we call ‘ghosts’ were living creatures at some point?”

Curiosity brings her gaze back to him. She waits for him to continue.

“The very same way some supernaturals cross into our world from the Echo World, there are undead who cross to our world from the Aperture – which is sort of a middle ground between our world and whatever you’d call the world of the dead. They are born dead – are _the essence_ of death. Those ones are dangerous because they seek a living host to latch onto; without one, they wither away into nothing.”

Ava watches him pull a couple of hefty tomes into his arms. She’d caught a few of the titles: “The Inbetween”, “Eye of the Solitude”, “De Vita in Tenebris”; all things she would have never known to pick out of the shelves herself.

Rhode nods. “Well, let’s continue this discussion somewhere more comfortable.” He leads her to a set of armchairs by a window, setting his pile of books down on the table in between them.

The armchair is comfortable enough, but she could swear she sees clouded eyes stare back at her through the darkness. It is easy to forget them, however, once Rhode opens the first of his many books and begins to lecture her on the contents.

She and Nat have spent many a night together like this – and this agent does not lack in enthusiasm or expertise. He speaks in a smooth baritone that is pleasant enough to listen to, though Ava still cannot shake the lilting soprano from her nightmares no matter how hard she tries. Still, this is a good opportunity to find out more about their enemies, and she does not intend to squander it, so she forces her attention to the words spilling out of Rhode’s mouth.

“So, there are the ghosts who were living beings at some point – we call those ‘spirits’ – and ghosts who were never alive – those are called ‘shades’” he explains. “Spirits are rarely dangerous. Nine times out of ten? They’re confused kids. That’s why they like to mess around and throw tantrums. The spirits with ‘unfinished business’ and the ‘vengeful spirits’ are in the minority.”

“And the shades?”

“Those are the ones you really gotta watch out for. They do not think like you and me. They aren’t driven by emotions like anger or grief or confusion; they’re creatures of instinct. They’re empty vessels that just want to consume until they’re full. The catch is –”

“They’re never satisfied,” Ava finishes his sentence.

He grins. “Exactly.”

“But…” She hesitates, a face flashing at the back of her mind. No – she has to ask; else this phantom will continue to haunt her forever. “Can they pull memories – _images_ – out of your mind and use them against you?”

Rhode’s thick brows furrow and Ava can almost see the question building in the crease in his forehead. But he keeps it to himself. Smart lad.

“It is known to happen.” His black eyes glaze over in recollection.

She does not press him, allowing him that brief calm. Her own eyes shift to the dawn sky out the window. It only just occurs to her that humans are not usually awake at this hour.

“It’s my sister,” he finally says.

“Pardon?”

“Shades. They want to be alive so bad, so they feed on powerful emotions – rage, loss, love – things that only living creatures have. When they want to really hit me where it hurts. They use my sister, Lia.” He leans back in his seat, craning his neck back to look at the ceiling. “Who is it for you?”

Ava’s heart twists painfully in her chest. She grabs the armrest so tightly that her knuckles turn paler underneath the strain.

He lowers his gaze again. “O-Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to – I mean, it’s personal; you don’t have to tell me!” he stammers, sitting upright again.

“I don’t know.” Her voice is low and almost timid, a color she doesn’t recognize on her own tongue.

“What?”

“I don’t know who it is,” she says more firmly. “I’ve been seeing the same face for…” She sighs and buries her head in her palms, fingers combing through her loose blonde hair. She hadn’t bothered to tie it when she wandered out in the night. She groans softly, thankful that Rhode does not say anything in response.

She stays like that until the tension slides off her body like raindrops on glass. She runs her hands through her hair again to get it out of her face before sitting up again. “The point is: how do I make it stop?”

Rhode gives her a sympathetic smile that Ava absolutely did not ask for. “A face wrapped in pain that is constantly at the back of your mind?” he asks. “You find a way to come to peace with it.”

She doesn’t like that answer. It would be much easier to come to peace with it if she had even an inkling of what it was and what it wanted with her.

“You know, Agent du Mortain,” – his eyes meet hers – “we are all haunted by something. I’m sure you understand that more than most. It’s usually the demons we _aren’t_ paid to **fight** that pack the most punch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kinda chill chap this week ~


	10. Blood

Farah isn’t sure when she started seeing it.

“It” being the terrifying undead figure that just sorta stands at the end of her bed and stares at her.

It definitely started after Unit Bravo began to take on assignments on behalf of the SPECTRE division. The first few times were a sleepy fog where the lines between dream and reality melted together in a thick soupy amalgam. Being a vampire, she doesn’t sleep very often, and when she does, she rarely remembers her dreams. Even then, her nightmares tend to be about the Echo World, not this world where she’s found nothing but kindness and light (well, there are assholes, too, but mostly kindness and light).

She’d seen the white Victorian nightgown at the foot of her bed, billowing in the breeze brought in by the open window, and the sweat-soaked strawberry blonde tresses that tumble down its back in a semi-tangled mess. Most notable is the face, though. It is twisted in such a severe grimace that every muscle in it is strained. And the shadows… It feels like the shadows have intentionally burrowed into the wrinkles in stark contrast to the whiteness of its skin.

Initially, the sight of it caused Farah’s heart to leap so intensely into her throat that it threatened to exit her body through her mouth.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t have a heartbeat. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t breathe. It just stares at Farah from across the bed, frozen in time.

Anyway, she’s decided to name it “Poppy”

Poppy got less scary at around the fourth sighting. She’s now more of a quirky feature of Farah’s life. Farah bids her good night, and she bids her good morning. She tells Poppy about her adventures and how much ass she kicked that day. And Poppy listens – or at least, she looks like she’s listening; there’s really no indicator aside from the fact that her head turns stiffly to follow Farah anytime she moves around the room.

And yes; it does turn three-sixty degrees, because Farah checked that, _of course_.

Poppy is at the back of Farah’s mind when she, along with the rest of Unit Bravo, meet up with Trigger’s team, Specter Unit Epsilon, at the driveway of old Wythinghall manor. The caretakers of the manor are a family of three who are counted among the rare non-Agency humans who know all about the supernatural. Their family has lived on the property for generations in a small bungalow a short distance away.

It is a windy autumn evening, the crisp air bites at their skin through their warm coats. The manor carries a mysterious aura of romance, with the ivy scaling the walls and the rose bushes blooming in abundance in the front garden. Farah wonders if the caretakers maintain the garden or if the flora has been left to its own devices for over a century.

Unit Epsilon is led by Commanding Agent Holmes – or Rhode. He’s a lot less of a stick in the mud than Unit Bravo’s leader. Farah notices that his gaze seems to linger a bit longer on Nat than it does on the other members of their team – and he’s not too bad to look at either. She files that information away for whenever the right opportunity arises to tease Nat about it.

Sporting a braided bun, woven with neon blue yarn, this time, Trigger eagerly helps Rhode introduce the two members of Unit Epsilon that they aren’t acquainted with. One of them is the laid back “Resonance” specialist, Agent Kuroda – or Ken. Apparently, “Resonance” has something to do with being able to peacefully communicate with spirits – some rare form of ESP according to Rhode.

The fourth member, their appearance completely concealed by their black tactical armor, black headscarf and niqab, seems to be doing their absolute best Morgan impression. They don’t speak much or make eye contact with any of the vampires. Trigger introduces them as infiltration specialist, Agent Falasteen – no first name.

Farah keeps her “Oh! So, bizarro Morgan?” comment to herself, but only because she gets a set of rather aggressive glares from Nat and Ava before the words even graze her tongue.

Their assignment is a pretty straightforward search-and-rescue. Their target, a human woman, had been reported missing a few days prior. The caretakers, who found her on the property, rather than reporting their findings to the police, contacted their town’s Agency liaison.

According to Rhode, the spirits in Wythinghall manor are a rare form of spirit: they are spirits that pair with shades, making them exceptionally difficult to deal with. The Specters have left this location alone mainly because the spirits are tied to the location, and as long as the caretakers are keeping people out, they aren’t danger to anyone.

The exact words Ava used were “A god damn mess of an oversight.”

To cover as much ground as possible, the group splits into pairs of two; each member of Unit Bravo is paired up with a member of Unit Epsilon: Ava with Trigger, Nat with Rhode, Morgan with Falasteen, and finally, Farah with Ken.

Farah and Ken are assigned to the ground floor as well as the courtyard. The décor is all marble statues, fancy paneling, and gold trimmed sofas. Farah is sure that somewhere within this maze of a mansion, Nat is having a field day.

“So, Mr. Resonance,” she says with a teasing smile, trying not to think about how much this place smells like dead bodies. The duo walks down a long hall, lined with tall windows that are so grimy that they’re impossible to see through. “What’s it like working with vampires?”

Ken grins back. She notes the black hair curl that falls onto his pale olive forehead – very Superman of him, if she does say so herself. “What makes you think you’re the first vampires we’ve ever worked with?”

She pouts. “Oh, so we’re not special, huh?”

He looks away from her, the glint of amusement still in his dark eyes. “Oh, well, you’re certainly the most stunning group of vampires we’ve ever worked with.”

The words cause her face to heat up, but she manages to get the mischievous smile back on her face in no time. “ _That’s_ what I wanted to hear!”

Ken holds a hand up abruptly to silence her, eyes searching into the distance. She would have been offended had she not been able to hear precisely what prompted that sudden reaction. It isn’t exactly subtle, but a gentle piano melody floats on the musty air, and it’s coming from directly ahead.

Ken’s hand goes directly to his belt as he moves quickly ahead, and Farah easily keeps pace with him. She doesn’t want to risk letting him fall behind or beating her to the source. They’ve been advised that each member of Unit Epsilon is a tier 4 at least, not exactly helpless, but they’re still only human.

The music gets more desperate as it goes on, as though the pianist were running for their life across the keys. Classical music has never been Farah’s thing, and classical music drifting on the wind in some haunted mansion? Not today, Satan.

Oddly enough, the thought of it reminds her of Poppy. Is this the kind of music that Poppy is into? Did she and her Victorian ghost friends see a pianist go apeshit on the keys and lose their entire minds? Maybe she should have asked her if she’d like to come. She’s probably terribly bored all alone in the facility. She’d fit right in, the skirts of her nightgown twirling around her as she dances with a handsome somebody. The thought fills Farah with a small pang of loneliness on behalf of her spooky friend.

The music is loudest by the dining room. It can’t really be coming from any other place, because the nearest “room” is the courtyard. Through its shattered glass doors, no piano is visible. The courtyard is overrun with flora, covering what must have once been a quaint cobblestone path and climbing all over the stone benches and statues.

The door to the dining hall is open just a crack, enough to see the dusty dining table and the comically large crystal chandelier, but not much else. Farah glances uncertainly at Ken and then at the door. Only with his express approval does she move to push the door open.

There, on the piano bench, sits Nat, her hands dancing expertly across the keys. Rhode stands with his arms crossed at her side, watching intently. It seems neither of them have noticed the company.

As the piece winds down and silence begins to reenter the space, Nat jumps in surprise, her fingers inadvertently playing a couple of sour notes before she leaps to her feet, crossing her arms behind her back.

“Farah!” Her voice sounds both shocked and relieved.

Farah walks over, raising her eyebrow very conspicuously at the sight. “Thought you were a ghost,” she says. “But if it’s just you two flirting, we can give you the room.”

Simultaneously, Nat and Rhode’s faces turn beet red at the insinuation.

Either Ken is oblivious to the atmosphere or he doesn’t take as much joy in teasing Rhode as Farah does in teasing Nat, because he gets right to the point. “Rhode, aren’t you supposed to be checking on the cellar?”

Rhode clears his throat, trying and failing to shake the blush off his face. “We were. Agent Sewell and I were just –”

Farah smiles impishly. _So, it’s ‘Agent Sewell’ now, huh?_

“I saw the piano on our way over and I wanted to try it out,” Nat says. “And now that I’ve gotten it out of my system, we can go on ahead.”

It’s hard to say which of the two is in more of a rush to escape Farah’s prying gaze. They both dart past her and Ken without a word.

Just as Farah is about to comment on the situation, an unusual sight catches her eye through the open door. Standing in the glass in the archway leading into the courtyard is none other than Poppy in her tattered night gown with that same tortured look on her face. She’s really expanding her horizons it seems; she’s never appeared to Farah when other people were around.

Farah had been right about one thing, though. She does look right at home here.

She’s startled out of her trance by Ken, who says, “Did you see something?”

She breaks her gaze to look at him. “You don’t see anything over there? Over by the courtyard?”

His eyes trail up in thought. “You mean aside from the creepy statues?”

She turns to look for Poppy again, only to find she’s pulled a Houdini on them. Classic Poppy, really.

“Okay,” She turns her full attention to Ken again. “Promise you won’t call me crazy, alright?”

A grin spreads across his face. “We’re in a haunted house looking for ghosts; I think we’re well past that.”

“So, I think I’m being haunted. Like lowkey.”

He raises his eyebrow. “Explain what ‘lowkey haunted’ means please.”

She lets out a breath and pulls out one of the dusty dining chairs and collapses in it, gesturing for Ken to do the same. “I’ve been seeing a ghost girl. Let’s call her Poppy.”

“You’ve named your –”

“I’m not done yet,” she snaps. “Poppy shows up at the end of my bed with a really upset look on her face and she just stares at me. She doesn’t move or speak or try to kill me or move my stuff… She just stands there and watches me. Like I know I’m super-hot and all, but that’s a bit much.”

“Right…” Ken says slowly, leaning forward in his seat. “Anything else?”

“She can do the head turning three-sixty degrees thing?”

His head turns so that he’s looking out the door to the courtyard again. “And that’s what you just saw over there? You saw Poppy?”

“Yes! Exactly! It’s the first time she’s followed me out of the facility! It’s super trippy, right?”

“Maybe she wants us to go over there,” Ken suggests, getting to his feet, helping Farah up too.

“You think so?”

“Worth a shot.”

The two of them exit the dining hall and enter the courtyard. The glass cracks underneath their boots as they pass through the archway and into the maze of ivy and vines. The upside to their transition into the courtyards is that the air here smells nicer than it does inside of the house. Well, marginally so, at least. That doesn’t make it any easier to navigate their way through the mess of shrubbery.

At the center of the courtyard, they come upon a statue so large, it could peek through the second-story windows if it were at all sentient – and they should hope that is not the case, because fighting a 14-foot possessed statue is not on her agenda today. Thankfully, the ground surrounding the statue is paved, which has staved nature off more successfully than the cobblestone paths leading up to it.

“Farah?”

Her skin nearly leaps off her bones at the sound of Ava’s voice coming from above. She’d forgotten that Ava and Trigger were assigned the attic and upper balcony. The fearless leader is holding onto the iron railing and leaning down.

It’s _who’s_ standing behind Ava that really catches Farah’s attention, though.

“Poppy?” she mumbles, narrowing her eyes at the sight. Poppy’s shoulders seem to be shuddering as she gazes murderously at Ava.

It’s not like Ava’s noticed this, naturally. She calls out again to her teammate. “Farah, we’ve found the girl! Go look for the others and tell them to meet us in the foyer!”

Farah’s heart lurches in her chest as she watches Poppy’s lips tremble. For half a second, her voice gets stuck at the back of her throat, but she finds it just in time to say. “Ava! Look out behind you!”

Ava doesn’t need to be told twice. She twists on her heel to face Poppy, and somehow this only makes the expression on the phantom’s face even more pained and severe than it had been before. Farah knows the commanding agent can handle herself, so all she can do is watch.

But Ava does nothing. The way she simply stands there staring ahead wordlessly makes it hard to tell whether or not she actually sees the spirit. But if she can’t see anything, surely, she would have said something to that effect, scolding Farah for trying to tease her again.

Poppy’s lips stretch open and out of them, emerges a screech so deafening that it overwhelms the senses. Her arms shoot forward to shove Ava, who topples too easily over the railing, down into the garden below.

Farah races to intercept her fall, managing to catch Ava in her arms at the last possible moment. Her gaze returns to the balcony once more, but Poppy is no longer there. When she looks back down at Ava, all she can see is a dazed and incredulous expression on her face – her emerald eyes seem to look past Farah, at the sky.

The moment does not last, and Ava clambers out of Farah’s arms and dusts herself off. “You didn’t need to catch me. That fall wouldn’t have hurt me.”

Farah frowns. “Sorry.”

Ava sighs and shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. Let’s just… meet with the others.”

When she turns around to leave the courtyard, Farah can’t help but notice that the back of her shirt is stained red with **blood**. She must have caught on the spikes of the balcony railing on her way down.

Morgan, along with Falasteen and Trigger are already in the foyer by the time Farah and her companions arrive. In Trigger’s arms is a large object covered in a blanket, emitting a putrid stench.

Farah can’t help but wince. She’d hoped this mission would have a happier ending, but that was too much to hope for in this line of work.

Once more, the sound of the piano crosses the lonely halls and passes into her ears. This piece has a rather melancholy quality to it. “Sounds like Nat’s showing off again,” she says, smirking at Ken, who smiles in return.

As though summoned by the sound of her name, however, Nat emerges from the hall to the right with Rhode close behind. Farah’s eyes widen, as the appearance of Nat does not put an end to the bittersweet music. It continues to echo, even louder now, as though it is aware of its audience.

Ken’s hand lands on her shoulder. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Agreed.” Ava opens the front door to the manor, letting in a gust of frigid nighttime air, and passes through, leaving the rest of her team as well as Unit Epsilon to follow after her.

As Trigger straps the girl into backseat of the Agency SUV, Farah catches the quiet voice of Falasteen from within the car; it’s the first time she’s heard it since meeting them. The words are clearly meant for her teammates, but it’s not difficult for a vampire to listen in.

“So, we’re just not gonna talk about the banshee scream, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was longer than I expected - oh well :)


	11. Transformation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit behind! I know we're meant to be at day 13. I'll be working on catching up though because I'd prefer to have this done by Halloween.

A full moon beams down upon the ruins of the old Delerue plantation, demurely tucked away between two long, wispy clouds. A chill fog has settled over the grounds, which, beyond rumors of murderous spirits, is also home to a host of dangerous wildlife. Only an idiot would come here unequipped.

“Are we filming?”

“Ayep. Let’s start in 3… 2… 1… “

With a bright, welcoming grin, the silence is shattered by Bat’s nasally West Coast accent. “What’s up, ghoulish guests! I’m Bat, and you’re watching another episode of Grave Business.”

She stands with her back to the driveway of the old plantation. The building must have once been a beautiful and expansive manor, but now, it looks like someone had begun to demolish it and stopped partway. The foundations of the building are still intact, as well as what seem to be parts of the ground floor, but the upper floors are a mess of debris.

The camera follows Bat as she crosses the driveway towards their entry point – the front doorway is completely caved in, so they’ve identified a broken window that makes a much better access point. According to their blueprints, this would lead them into the large parlor.

Bat turns to face the camera again and addresses the person behind the camera this time. “Hey, Jack. Mind giving me a boost here?” She jerks her thumb in the direction of the window. It’s around 5 feet above the ground – a difficult climb for Bat, who barely scratches 5’4, even counting the bright red updo that grants her at least an extra inch.

Jack sighs, placing her camera strap around her neck. Her tall, athletic build allows her to lift her friend up with ease. “Mind the glass, Bat,” she says with a grunt.

“Woah…” Bat gasps.

The parlor is a mess of dust, debris, and cobwebs, but even in this state, the elegance of it cannot be denied. Their attention is instantly drawn by the sad, shattered chandeliers marking each of the three separate sitting areas in the large chamber. The sofas are probably infested with pests and who knows what else, but the faded colors indicate that they must have once been a vibrant emerald. Some of the wooden furniture has been shattered, but a surprising majority of it is still intact.

“What are we looking at, Bats,” Jack asks, panning her camera over the room, pausing every so often to capture interesting details – an ornate cabinet, a broken statuette, a dusty grandfather clock.

Bat gestures around the room. “This is the Delerue family’s parlor. Probably spent a lot of time here. Especially the lady of the house, Lady Amanda Delerue, who used to hold elaborate gatherings for the aristocracy in Greywood.”

Each of the girls wears a flashlight on her head, but even with the lights, they only manage to illuminate a small circle around themselves – like the darkness is actively fighting back against them, forcefully pushing against the boundaries of the circle.

On the distant outskirts of that darkness, a pale face gazes eastward through the vines and shattered fragments of the farthest parlor window. A neck turns achingly slow. A gaze lands on a halo of white light. A mourner’s veil sways in a light breeze.

Hidden in an even more distant shadow, rooms away, is Unit Bravo, standing so still in the moonlight of the half-demolished kitchen, that they could be mistaken for statues by a hapless passerby.

“Why do I hear talking?” Morgan grumbles. “They didn’t send Epsilon after us again, did they?”

Ava doesn’t need to say anything. “They better not have,” she conveys through tightness of brow and stiffness of jaw alone.

“Could be one of the spirits we’re looking for,” Nat offers. She takes a reluctant step towards the archway leading to the hall. “I’ll go check it out.”

Ava jerks forward. “And I’ll go with you.” She directs a firm glance to her other teammates. “You two investigate the humming noises in the basement.”

Morgan doesn’t say a word, but a grumble does emerge from Farah. “But that’s creepier…” It is decidedly ignored as Ava and Nat disappear into the darkness of the hall.

The hall is a narrow space, cluttered with fallen floorboards and support beams. The ground creaks beneath them as they walk, the only sound beyond the chattering, which only grows louder as the vampires come closer. The ceiling is partially shattered above them, and shadows dance in the moonlight, stalking them as they go on ahead.

“You sure volunteered in a hurry,” Nat says calmly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were frightened of going into the basement.”

Ava scowls at the insinuation. “What do I possibly have to be frightened of?”

“You tell me.” Nat leaves it at that, poising her long fingers against the closed door of the parlor.

Ava’s brow knits in frustration. The voices are definitely coming from here, and it sounds like humans – the kinds of humans that stew in their ignorance and endanger their lives just for a small glimpse at the supernatural world. It’s not as though the existence of these humans is a threat to the secrecy of the Agency in any way; it would be laughable to even consider them as such. They’re more of a nuisance than anything else.

“We use our pheromones, take whatever footage they have, and ask them to leave,” Ava hisses, moving to stand by Nat at the door.

She simply nods and turns the doorknob slowly. She pushes it open as gently as she can to dampen the noise made by the rusted hinges. Nonetheless, the sound is still enough to startle whoever is on the other side of the door.

Two shrieks greet them on the other side, along with a set of dumbfounded expressions.

One of the humans is about as short as Farah, with bright red hair and a freckled face. The second human is over half a foot taller, with short blonde hair – most notably, she wears a tank-top revealing a pair of toned tattooed arms. Both have grabbed each other in fear at the sudden disruption.

Nat, always good with her words, is the one to approach them, with her hands outstretched in front of her as though she were trying to calm an enraged animal. To her credit, they appear to be calming down, the knots in their muscles untangling.

“Are you two alone here?” she asks, keeping her tone soft and sweet.

The two girls look at one another and then back at Nat. Their gazes even pause on the vampire still skulking in the shadows for a brief moment. Something brand new occurs to Ava, causing her to wince as the girls are playing tug of war with her nerves, each of them out for blood. The quickening of their hearts? The blank looks on their faces? The tint in their cheeks? These humans are attracted to them.

It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. At any rate, all they have to do is tell the girls to leave. Humans are easy that way.

Nat is gentle when she takes the taller girl’s hands in her own. “Please, could you give me your camera?” It’s phrased like a question but spoken like a demand.

The blonde’s eyes widen and the blush across her cheeks deepens as she nods frantically. She hurriedly turns the camera off and places it in Nat’s waiting hand.

“What the hell, Jack?” the second girl cries.

Just then, Ava is in front of her, a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Go home, Jack,” Nat continues in a low and soothing voice. “You didn’t find anything interesting here. It was a disappointment.”

Jack’s lips feel dry. She looks over at her friend. “Hey, Bat, let’s just get out of here?”

Bat is still staring intently into Ava’s striking emerald eyes, her breath catching in her throat. “What?”

“Go home,” Ava says slowly. “This place was a waste of your time.”

Bat’s eyes dart to the side uncertainly and then move back to Ava. “What? What are you talking about?”

Ava resists the urge to squeeze the girl’s shoulders painfully. Did it not work? Before her glare can burn a hole into Bat’s face, she feels herself be pushed aside and Nat takes her place.

Jack is shoving all her things into her old shoulder bag, not paying the vampires any attention. Her mind is made; she is going to leave Delerue Manor and never come back. Bat, however, needs more convincing than that.

Nat leans down to make eye contact with the girl. “Bat, you need to leave this place.”

The flush on Bat’s face finally fades, and in its stead, a confused frown forms. “And who the hell are you? Rival ghost-hunters?”

The way Nat’s jaw drops would have been funny were it not incredibly concerning that their pheromones did not seem to be working on this human. The indignation in Bat’s voice is astonishing as it is incredibly annoying.

The words keep spilling out of Bat’s mouth at an alarming rate. “Typical people like you would try to silence indie LGBT shows like Grave Business. I’ll have you know that we’ve been nominated for best up-and-coming indie web-show by the Lesbian Society for Filmmakers in Wisconsin! And we’re nominated for a Ghostie. It’s like – y’know – the Oscars, but it’s for paranormal investigation shows, and it’s not run by cishet white men.”

Nat straightens up and turns to Ava, an incredibly hopeless look on her face. She recognizes all the words Bat has spoken independently, but put together, nothing that she just said makes any sense to Nat.

Ava’s fingers close into fists and she decides to make a second attempt at getting rid of this human; no pheromones this time, just pure intimidation. “Leave,” she spits venomously. “You shouldn’t be here.”

To Ava’s surprise, this shuts the girl right up. She somehow expected a bit more resistance. Bat looks like she’s seen a ghost – her face pale, eyes wide, jaw quivering. But she doesn’t leave; she stays glued in place.

A low humming noise causes Ava’s ears to perk up. Her mind races with the sound of the ocean beating against the shore, eyes stinging with tears, throat closing up –

“Ava, look out!” Nat’s apprehensive voice breaks her train of thought.

Ava turns to come nose-to-nose with a tattered mourning veil, caving inwards as though being sucked into a vacuum just behind it.

_Ava. Ava. Ava…_

And she does the only thing that makes sense in this sort of situation. She roundhouse kicks the thing right in the gut, sending it soaring into the drywall at the far end of the room. It slams into the chipped paneling, causing the already fragile structure to shake precariously.

She closes her eyes, trying to drown out the raspy humming. “Nat, get the girls out of here.” She pointedly keeps her back to Nat as she speaks.

“What about –”

“Now, Nat!”

When Ava’s eyes open, the creature is back up, taking heavy and deliberate steps to close the distance between them. It stops midway, watching Ava through its veil, its shoulders slack and its head bowed.

_Everything… will be… okay…_

The waves.

The rose petals.

The fingers just out of her reach.

Ava shakes her head with a growl. She wishes Rhode had been more helpful when she’d asked him about how to stave off the cold prying fingers of the shades. But this is a spirit, isn’t it? Not a shade.

The **transformation** is barely noticeable as it starts. The dark fabric of the gown begins to move, propelled by what seems to be the light breeze filtering through the broken windows. It lifts its head up, looking straight ahead at Ava. In a motion resembling a yawn, the veil is sucked deeper into its face; not only the veil, but the shadows crawling about the walls slither against the ground and into its gaping black maw.

All the while, Ava watches uncertainly as its limbs begin to grow, the blackness of the shadows wrapping around its skin like armor. The veil, which sways gently still weaves into the air like obsidian dust dancing on the wind. Just as her mind tries to comprehend it, tries to find a weakness she can exploit, an advantage she can use, it disappears.

Still, Ava’s heart shudders in her chest. The humming isn’t gone.

_I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean…_

It’s right in front of her again. The scent nearly makes her gag. Its hand shoots to her throat, fingers squeezing tightly. She doesn’t need to breathe, but her chest begins to ache nonetheless as her hands claw at the inky black talons. She tries kicking and hitting at it with her fists, but the humming just gets louder, like it’s trying to drown out the sound of her.

_Stay… Stay… Stay… Ava…_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

The phantom’s hands snap open and its figure goes rigid as though tasered. It then topples sideways, body petrified like a statue at Ava’s feet, leaving her face to face with… the red-haired girl from before? The one who wouldn’t submit to the vampire pheromones. Had Nat lost track of her?

“What did you do?” Ava gasps.

The door to the parlor slams open and in come Morgan and Farah. They look like they’d been in a rush to get here.

“We heard yelling and came right over,” Farah says, and her lips purse thoughtfully as she regards Bat curiously.

Ava’s eyes narrow when she spots a child wrapped around Morgan’s torso, their arms slung around her neck and their face hidden in her shoulder. She still hadn’t gotten the answer to her first question, so she’d have to momentarily leave that one for later.

“You.” She looks at Bat again. “Explain.”

Bat scoffs, the height difference not stopping her from sizing Ava up. “Please, what kind of ghost-hunter worth their salt doesn’t know about the Specters. And trying to compel me with pheromones? Sloppy.”

Ava bristles. Sloppy? Just who the hell does she think she is?

Bat holds up what looks like an Agency taser. “I took it from your pocket. I’ve seen other Specters use them on ghosts before; figured you needed the help.”

Looking away in embarrassment, Ava grumbles, “I was handling it.” She had not been handling it, in fact. That shade had managed to completely fill her mind with noise, burying her thoughts under piles and piles of nonsense. She’d forgotten the Specters had even given her that taser. If Bat hadn’t intervened – if the rest of her team hadn’t heard her struggle, would she have just stayed in the phantom’s icy grasp?

It’s a thought she pushes away in favor of addressing Morgan.

“What is that?”

“A child, clearly,” Morgan replies disinterestedly.

“ _Whose_ child?”

The child, sensing they’re being discussed, turns their head to glance curiously at Ava, only to reveal that they are missing some vital parts of their face – all of it in fact.

“Jesus!” Bat exclaims.

“Don’t be rude!” Farah crosses her arms over her chest. “We’re just taking him to mommy!”

All eyes then land on the shade crumpled in a heap on the ground.

A sheepish smile crosses Farah’s face as she looks back at the child. “Mommy’s just asleep.”


	12. Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter!  
> => Descriptions of gore  
> => Mentions of animal death
> 
> This is a lighter chapter more in the spirit of the earlier chapters ~

Morgan drags her red wine lipstick over her lips, inspecting it in the SUV’s visor mirror. She smacks her lips and runs her fingers through her dark brown waves – fluffing them up and making sure they’re the correct amount of disheveled, before shutting the visor.

Leaning against the back doors is Farah, idly chewing bubblegum and nodding her head to the music coming from within the car. Unit Bravo usually travels as a pack, but Nat and Ava insisted on being left behind at the Agency facility – something about researching something with Rhode. Anyway, Farah is just grateful for the one-on-one quality time with Morgan she’s getting out of this.

Morgan slams the car door as she exits the driver’s seat, pointing the remote over her shoulder to lock it and gesturing to Farah to follow.

Their assignment today leads them to an upper-middle class suburban neighborhood. The house is a 2-story family home with a bland green lawn, a white picket fence, boring peony bushes – the works. The pollen in the air makes Morgan’s nostrils flare up – her hand hovers dangerously over the cigarette packet in her pocket but quashes the urge, at least for now.

The person who opens the door to the two vampires is an elderly man, small in stature, with wiry cotton puffs atop his head. He’s wearing a dark clerical shirt and collar with black trousers. There’s relief in his bulging bespectacled eyes as he waves for the women to come inside.

“Please come inside,” he says in a soft raspy voice.

Morgan finds it hard to hide the way her mouth twists in displeasure, but work is work. She and Farah follow the man into the sitting room. Farah immediately plops down into the floral-patterned couch, sinking into the softness with a content look on her face.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Father…” she trails off, looking to the priest to complete the sentence.

He places a hand on his chest and nods in greeting. “Peterson. I’m Duncan Peterson.” He takes a seat in an armchair facing Farah. “And thank you for the sentiment, but this isn’t my home. I’ve just been called in by the Romeros to help with their ‘problem’ – same as you, I imagine, vampire.”

Morgan raises an eye at Father Peterson before dropping onto the couch beside Farah and lifting her boots onto the coffee table. “And where are the Romeros exactly –”

Farah interrupts by leaning forward in her seat and saying, “Nice to meet you, Father Peterson. I’m Farah Hauville, and this is my partner, Morgan. No last name – y’know like Cher.”

Father Peterson smiles in acknowledgement. “Dina and her son are upstairs.”

“Thanks! Catch ya later, my dude!” Farah gives him a bright toothy grin and a pair of finger guns before hopping to her feet.

The girls head to the staircase they passed on their way to the living room. The wood is old, and it creaks with every step they take up towards the second floor. In addition to the groaning of the wood, they hear a livid feminine voice cry out in exasperation.

_“I swear to Christ, Caleb, if you don’t open that door RIGHT NOW –”_

They follow the voice to a red-faced woman in curve-hugging jeans and a loose peasant top. Her whole body is tenser than Ava confronted with a bad joke, and her thin lips are pressed into a firm line. Her glare softens as she watches Farah and Morgan approach.

“You must be the kids the Agency sent,” she says, the anger in her tone replaced with exhaustion. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. I’m Dina Romero.”

Farah closes the gap between them, taking the woman’s hands in her own. “I’m Farah and she’s Morgan. So, could you tell us a bit about this problem you’ve been having?”

Dina leads them to what looks to be a home art studio. There are a couple of easels scattered around, each with its own stool. She pulls out a stool and takes a seat. “Please,” she says, indicating two other seats.

“When did this start?” Farah asks.

Dina sighs and rubs her head wearily. “God, I don’t know? A week maybe? Two? It’s been on-off – and well, Caleb has never been well-behaved, so I thought it was just another one of his things? Like I didn’t think he could be… you know… _possessed_.” She whispers the last word as though it were a dirty thing that didn’t belong on her tongue.

Farah nods. “And what kinda stuff has he been doing?”

Dina’s face scrunches up in a mixture of stress and recollection. “He’s been swearing a lot more – saying crude and vulgar stuff. He’s left dead animals around the house. Like birds… squirrels… And there was that one time he sorta crawled? On the ceiling?”

Morgan and Farah share a look before getting to their feet. “Let’s see the kid,” Morgan says bluntly.

And they’re back at it again. Slamming their fists into the door, demanding Caleb open it. Whatever is speaking through him sounds gleefully indignant as it cackles and screams through the door. It would be unnerving were it not for the really loud country love ballad blaring from behind the door.

“I can break the door down?” Morgan’s eyes are begging Dina for permission. It would be easy to break this old thing down, and the Agency could just get them a new door – no problem.

Dina shakes her head with a sigh. “Fine. Whatever it takes, right?”

Farah’s hand zips over to Dina’s forearm. “The Agency can get you a new door, but we can’t get you a new son.” That eases a bit of the apprehension on the woman’s face.

With that said, Morgan slams her shoulder into the wood, dealing the first blow to the door. The hinges creak with resistance, the screws barely clinging to the wall. When her boot connects with the door, it leaps back a meter before toppling over on the messy bedroom floor.

A gag-inducing pungent scent wafts into their nostrils once the barrier is no longer in the way. It takes over their senses so fully that they struggle to step into the room. Morgan winces, her mind flipping through all the responses it could possibly have to being subjected to such an overwhelming filth; it settles, however, on annoyance.

Morgan snatches Farah’s scarf and ties it around her face. She then takes long steps into the room. It is what you’d expect of the stereotypical teenage boy – movie posters on the walls, and comic books on the shelves; a laptop sits on the desk. She stops at the foot of the boy’s bed with her hands on her hips staring him down.

“Real classy, kid,” Morgan snarls at him, gesturing to the sight in front of her.

As though the subject of a macabre work of art, the boy is sitting on the bed surrounded by deep red blood and stringy entrails – like the main course in a feast of **flesh**. A cursory judgement tells her that the guts are much too big to have belonged to a squirrel or a bird. Human maybe? Could be a big animal, too.

From the doorway, she hears Dina softly moan, “How the fuck am I going to get those stains out?”

“You’re not wanted here, vampire,” Caleb hisses. “Leave me here to my _art_! Or you will regret it!”

Morgan scoffs. “I’ve picked my teeth with monsters worse than you. You think I’m scared of you?”

“You tell ‘em, Morgan!” Farah cheers from the doorway.

Morgan turns to her, raising a questioning brow. “You comfortable all the way over there?”

“Very comfortable; thanks for asking.”

With a roll of her eyes, Morgan faces Caleb again, who seems to be scrutinizing her – it’s hard to tell when his eyes are dark soulless voids. He crawls across the bed, carefully avoiding crushing the solid chunks of viscera. A lopsided grin adorns his blood-stained face.

“You’re a pretty thing, vampire. I just might have a use for you – at my side.”

Morgan scowls.

He tsks. “No, no, no; you mustn’t make such an ugly face, my queen. It’s unbecoming.”

A long shaky sigh passes through her nostrils as she leans close to the teenage boy, her hand on her taser. “Go rule garbage kingdom by yourself,” she growls and presses the taser into the boy’s side, categorically wiping that smug look off his face and causing him to drop limp in the middle of his twisted “artwork”

She raises the taser inches from her lips and lowers the scarf to blow the rising smoke away as though it were a gun. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”


	13. Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much action in this chapter -- but I did enjoy writing a very quiet chapter

_“It **apologized** to me, Nat,”_ Ava had said, head in her hands, stuck on a problem for which she had no solution. It’s an expression Nat seldom sees on the commanding agent’s face, and one that Morgan and Farah have likely not seen at all. _“And the worst of it is… I was heartbroken. Unequivocally sure I’d forgiven it long before it had even opened its mouth, and I couldn’t rationalize it if I tried.”_

Nat tries to muffle her footsteps as she passes through the darkened hall, feeling a shiver as though an unseen entity has just passed through her body.

The schoolhouse has been abandoned since World War I and has since been boarded up. It is yet one of the more beautiful buildings that she has had the pleasure of exploring since taking on work for the SPECTRE division. The interior is still intact, perfectly frozen in time. Seats are ajar in classrooms and books are out on tables, giving the impression that their owners are merely out on a quick little recess and are due back at any moment.

She sighs and runs a manicured finger down the weathered wood of the wall, her eyes drifting across a poster that has long faded over time. She sighs, and it is like the whole building sighs with her, with slumped shoulders and melancholy eyes.

As she takes slow, meandering steps through the hallway, Ava’s voice plays again in her head, as quiet and defeated as it had been on the night they spoke – the night she’d tried to fight the shade. Ava can be incredibly aloof and pigheaded when she wants to be, but that night, something inside her was boiling, threatening to blow her top off completely. She’d been defeated that night, returning to the facility like army commander counting the casualties in their battalion.

_“I just want it to leave me alone…”_

Alone… It is ironic, then, that Ava had never sounded more isolated in her pain. It’s something that Nat cannot fathom even in the centuries of companionship they’d shared. All she knows, is that, just as centuries-old buildings attract echoes of their long past, so, too, do people – especially when they’ve lived as long as Ava has.

As to what Nat hopes to find in this old schoolhouse, she does not know.

She’d been lured here by Rhode, who’d proposed that it was a good place to think – in spite of the restless spirits flitting about. He’d said the spirits give it an enchanting sort of charm. She can’t exactly say he’s wrong about that.

Those that she can see appear to her as wisps in the air. They dance and play around her like fireflies, bunny hopping eagerly, hoping to get the attention of their interesting new guest. She feels a smile warm her face as she allows them to guide her path through the school. She can hear laughter on the fringes of her senses – like the memory of a sound at the back of her mind.

She twirls within the circle of wisps that she has attracted, trying not to be unsettled by the sensation of small fingers playing with her long brown curls. They’re only children, trapped within an endless school day. It’s a friend they see in her, not a victim.

She holds steady to the stair railing as her new companions bounce on ahead to the second floor. The familiar sound of a piano played lovingly travels over to her. Note by note, they follow along the path, gathering more and more playmates like a pied piper passing by.

Of course, Nat knows about the apparition that plagues Ava. She’s always known about it – for as long as she’s known Ava, she’s known about the siren that lives deep in the recesses of her mind. She may be the only person Ava has confided in with her troubling visions and dreams. It’s always a whisper in Ava’s ear when she least expects, or a face in the mirror that she doesn’t recognize, gone before she even has the presence of mind to acknowledge it. It’s always lingered at the back of Ava’s thoughts, so distant that she’d often forget about it up until the moment it decides to torment her again.

It is a mystery to Nat why Ava is being haunted like this. Had it been a chance encounter one fateful day? Or perhaps a curse of which Ava had been the unlucky recipient? Or is it simply an unfortunate memory trapped in a prison of her mind for which she has no key?

And what is it about this particular ghost that the intrusive shades have taken a liking to?

She feels as light as the wisps, unable to keep the serene smile off her face. She waltzes into the music room, her feet moving of their own accord, her hands awaiting a dance partner. She spins around the small room, reveling in the warmth filtering in through the classroom window. She could not imagine a more divine feeling.

She tiptoes across the room in her flats, stopping at the grand piano in the corner. She trails her fingers across the smooth surface and curiously leans over to watch the keys dance of their own accord. She lets her fingers slide against the side of the piano until she finds herself at the bench.

“Is this seat taken?” she asks gently.

The melody slows down briefly before resuming. The outline of a woman vaguely fills the space in front of Nat. Her pale hands continue to skip over the keys masterfully, strands of her honey-blonde hair slip out of her updo, concealing her face.

Nat takes a seat beside her, gingerly ghosting her fingers over the keys, waiting for her cue to join in. The woman winds down arpeggio phrased like a polite invitation, and on the next beat, comes Nat’s bouncy reply. She chases after the phantom woman, meeting her bittersweet waltz beat for beat – each trill is like jumping up for air before falling back into the brisk tempo they’ve set.

The dance goes around and around in her mind, and soon enough, Ava is there again – it’s the 18th century and she stands on the battlements of a fortress yelling into the rain because she’d seen eyes in the raindrops; and again in the 19th century, burying her face into Nat’s shoulder because closing her eyes wasn’t enough; or the Ava from the 50’s that shaved her hair clean off because the slender fingers she felt combing through it weren’t hers.

Thoughts of the shadows catching up to Ava and swallowing her whole overtake Nat’s mind – thoughts of Ava’s strength sapped from her body, leaving her a wilting shell of herself – thoughts of her dearest and oldest friend becoming nigh unrecognizable, as flat as the shadows on the walls. The poison seeps into her fingers as she beats her anxiety into the keys, her notes getting sharper, louder, more erratic. Her hands grow cold, fingers so stiff they struggle to hit the chords in time with her partner.

She feels a chill on her left hand, reeling it back and putting an abrupt end to a melody which had grown increasingly agitated over time. Nat turns her head, her breath catching in her throat. The woman stares back, her face is missing the skin and muscle, revealing the ivory white bone of her skull behind it.

 _“You’re scaring the children.”_ The sound echoes against the walls of Nat’s head. It is neither stern nor accusatory – merely stating a fact. The woman’s free hand moves up to push a strand of Nat’s hair behind her ear with the tenderness of a mother.

Nat retrieves her left hand before burying both in her lap. “I **apologize**. I have a lot on my mind.”

With a drawn-out sigh, the woman blinks out of sight.

Nat feels the room grow just a little bit dimmer as one-by-one, the wisps, which had once lit up her path as well as her heart, all fade as though they’d never been there at all. It is a sight that makes her heart sink – now, there is nobody here to keep her company but the tension that begins to settle over her bones.

She is startled by the sensation of ice water sliding from the top of her head down to the base of her neck, causing her every nerve to jitter in protest. She squeezes her eyes tight as she feels an involuntary shudder travel down her spine. When she opens them, the woman is there again, the hollows of her eyes conveying a remarkable amount of emotion.

 _“She’s a mountain, you know – that woman…”_ Her voice is like a breath on a winter morning. _“With bright icy peaks that touch the heavens… It will take more than matchsticks to destroy her.”_

She touches Nat again, fingers trailing down her shoulder. She is incapable of passing on the warmth in her tone through those chilling fingers, but Nat appreciates the gesture, nonetheless. She takes the woman’s hand in her own. “How do I help her? It’s getting worse.”

The spirit cocks her head to the side thoughtfully. _“She must willingly unravel herself – before the shades do it for her.”_ She looks down. _“It will hurt either way…”_

Nat isn’t sure if the meaning of the woman’s words has quite sunk in, but she has withdrawn her hands and seems unwilling to speak any further on the matter. “Thank you. I feel quite rude. Here I am, a guest in your home, and I don’t know your name.”

The skeletal head rises again. _“My name? Why… I must have forgotten it. The children call me Mercy.”_

Nat can still hear the voice in her head as clear as she can hear her own thoughts even after Mercy vanishes. She cannot say whether she’s learned anything from this. If anything, it has given her a lot more to think about.


	14. Throat

A major difference between human and supernatural Agency operatives is the fact that many still have homes outside of the Agency. It is still true, however, that, like supernatural agents, the humans are often forced to live within the various facilities across the globe – the nature of their work preventing them from settling down for too long in one place. It is a rare few who get to enjoy the luxury of a permanent home.

Rebecca finds herself in Marrakesh, on a balcony overlooking the Atlantic. Her brown eyes scan the horizon, across the gardens and beaches below. It’s far too chilly to swim, which leaves the view almost entirely devoid of people – lonely waters ebbing and flowing without a soul to breathe in the sweet ocean breeze.

She tugs her coat tighter around her body, nodding gratefully and mumbling her thanks in Arabic as she is handed a cup of Arabic coffee by a sharply dressed housekeeper. She hopes the woman can understand her Palestinian dialect, but she figures at least gratitude is easy enough to understand no matter the dialect. She places the coffee, which is much too hot to drink, on intricately painted wooden table before her.

“Madame Aisha will be with you in a moment,” the housekeeper says in her own heavy Moroccan dialect before nodding respectfully and returning to the house.

Rebecca takes this time to marvel at the spacious balcony she finds herself on. The detail in the elegant, rounded arches alone, which lead to the interior of the house, is astounding. The muted palette of the tiles on the floor do not overpower the space but bring a dash of color into the earthy shades of the building’s exterior. She shifts in the luxurious dark maroon cushions on her wooden bench.

To live here must be marvelous – but to live here alone must be incredibly isolating. She finds her thoughts drifting to her daughter. They don’t exactly have the best of relationships, which is made clear by the fact that the girl would go to any lengths to get away from Wayhaven and away from her mother’s watchful eye, including going to college across the country with her high-school girlfriend. Rebecca smiles bitterly – as if she could ever leave her daughter in charge of her own safety, let alone with, God forbid, Bobby Marks.

She takes a slow sip of her coffee, the heavy flavor of cardamom warming her tongue. It’s been far too long since she’s had coffee this rich. Since moving from the Levant to the United States, she’s had little opportunity to indulge in such luxuries – although Agent Sewell has, on occasion, prepared it for her as a treat.

She frowns at the thought of Rook. Would he have been safer had she taken him to her home in Ramallah? Surely her daughter would be happier. She’d been Raghad back then – not that anyone uses that name anymore. Even Unit Bravo knows her only by the name “Rebecca”

She clears her **throat** , pushing those thoughts to the back of her mind when she hears the sound of a wheelchair approach.

“Agent Aryan.” Rebecca gets to her feet, reaching out to shake the woman’s hand.

Aisha Aryan has skin as rich and pristine as the golden jewelry laid across her neck. She seems completely untouched by age, which is to say she looks remarkably the same as she did when Rebecca last met her nearly ten years ago.

“We’re in Arab lands, my friend; let’s greet each other properly!”

Aisha pulls Rebecca by her hand, dragging down into a traditional greeting, alternating kisses upon each of her cheeks and releasing her only when she is satisfied with her efforts. Rebecca can only awkwardly pull away from her, smoothing down her pressed suit and returning to her seat.

“And please, call me Aisha,” she says, the hint of a smile in her black eyes.

Rebecca nods, a professional smile on her lips. “Thank you, Aisha, for inviting me to your home.”

“I very rarely get guests from the Agency,” Aisha replies, the smile on her face turning sardonic. “I’m surprised they even had the decency to ship my brother’s body here for the burial.”

A sigh builds in Rebecca’s chest. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. May God have mercy on his soul.”

“You know that’s not so simple in our line of work, Rebecca,” Aisha says.

“Then I can only hope he finds his way.” Rebecca reaches across the table to place a comforting hand atop Aisha’s. She understands Aisha’s anxiety more than most. When Rook passed, the Agency couldn’t even give her a body to bury. Rebecca doesn’t pray, but she’d spent the entire day at the Mosque after she found out. Their daughter was only two – not even old enough to understand why they’d needed to pray; she’d passed the time playing with the Imam’s cat.

The expression on Aisha’s face softens. “How do you like your coffee?”

“It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“Good. I was not certain if you preferred Arabic or Turkish, so I had Lujain prepare both.” Speaking to Aisha feels like speaking to a ghost; she looks at a person like she knows what they’re about to say before they say it – like she has a direct link to the darkest shadows of their mind. Her dark eyes seem to stare directly into Rebecca’s, like she’s spotted something swirling in the auburn depths.

Or perhaps it is simply that life’s hardships have honed a sharp intuition in her, one that does not rest, even now that she’s retired from her position at the Agency.

“You’re here to speak to me about him,” she says, taking a sip from her own cup. “Or perhaps you want to know more about how Chance came to succeed him?”

Rebecca’s voice gets stuck in her **throat** for a moment. “I want to know about that day. I want to know what happened.”

“I can only imagine how Chance explained it to you,” Aisha says, her gaze drifting over the balcony for a moment before returning to Rebecca. “There is a part of that story that the Agency has completely stripped from their records – one of the skeletons hiding in SPECTRE’s closet. Certainly, one of the reasons I must have been remarkably hard to find. Your Nat was incredibly persistent.”

Rebecca smiles fondly. “She can be, yes.”

“Chance told you about the rookie agent, correct? The one that my brother was trying to rescue when he got possessed?” Aisha takes Rebecca’s slow nod as her cue to continue. “That was no rookie. That was Agent Parker – a tier 5. As well as my wife – _late_ wife.” Her voice hitches and she takes another sip of her coffee. “And he never rescued her. He was too late. She was already dead. The spirit had just finished wiping its hands of her before moving onto my brother.”

“Why hide her identity? Why erase her from Agency records?” If Rebecca’s voice sounds desperate, it’s because it is. Her thoughts are racing from this revelation. She’s always known that the Agency has no issues with getting its hands dirty – all for the betterment of society, for both humans and supernaturals right?

Aisha frowns. “That, I cannot tell you. For I do not know myself. It was the biggest Agency coverup I’ve ever seen – led entirely by one Agent Charlotte Chance.” She stares down into her lap. “They said her body was not recovered from the scene. But I…” Her soft voice quivers. “I was the first person he told when he found her. The last words he ever spoke to me. It was to tell me that Ellie was dead.”

Rebecca’s brow furrows in disbelief. “I’m so sorry, Aisha.”

Aisha waves her sympathy away as one would wave away a plume of smoke. “As for the spirit that killed her… The spirit was too powerful for even Agency technology to contain. It short circuited every single device used on it. The only reason SPECTRE was even able to retrieve the bodies was the fact that my brother had inadvertently captured the spirit with his own body – at the cost of his own mind. It was not an outcome that any of us could have expected. Possessions are very taxing on the body; a spirit that powerful should have killed him – it probably anticipated it would.”

“And if he’d died, what would have happened to the spirit?” Rebecca asks. The image of Chance at Director Aryan’s bedside flashes into her mind – the sight of those powder white fingers trailing down his face as his body protested the drug. It is admittedly a memory that has been constantly bobbing on the surface of her mind, staining the waters red. The drone of the flatlining heart monitor plays on repeat in her head.

Aisha leans forward in her wheelchair. “Are you afraid, perhaps? That Chance has allowed the spirit to escape?”

Rebecca is silent. Perhaps she is… Perhaps that is the emotion that has taken on the form of Chance’s calm calculating violet eyes. Where once she may have classified her dislike for Chance as mere professional annoyance, the one thing she cannot admit, even to Unit Bravo, is that Chance is more frightening than any supernatural she has ever encountered.

In the silence, they allow the ocean to send a rush of sweet air to clear the thick and musty tension that has settled over them. Rebecca is relieved as the air rushes into her lungs, flushing out the poison that had been suffocating her.

Even Aisha’s eyes have lost some of their intensity. “I don’t think you have anything to fear from that spirit,” she says finally. “At least, not yet. Chance is always ten steps ahead of each action she takes. She is also the most self-serving individual I know. In killing my brother, she was probably just checking a task off her agenda. And I am absolutely certain it has something to do with that spirit.”

“It’s still in the SPECTRE facility then.”

“I have no doubt.”

Rebecca sighs, rubbing the back of her neck and taking this chance to get to her feet. “Thank you, Aisha, for your hospitality. But I’m afraid I have overstayed my welcome.”

The mysterious smile returns to Aisha’s face as she rolls around the table to approach Rebecca. “It was nice to have the company.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances,” Rebecca replies. She leans down to kiss the woman’s cheeks goodbye.

Aisha’s arm wraps around Rebecca’s back, pulling her in closer. “Whatever Chance is planning, you won’t be able to stop it,” she says into Rebecca’s ear. “But please fight tooth and nail to survive it. You and your agents.”

The warning sends shivers down Rebecca’s spine as she slowly pulls away from the hug. She nods briskly as she straightens her clothing. “Thank you, Aisha.”

The warning is still etched into the lines on Aisha’s face. “Lujain will see you out. Take care, Agent Sarhan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [eyes emoji] Changed the genre to better reflect the plot of the story ~


	15. Feral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> => Guns (lots of guns I'm sorry)  
> => Mild descriptions of body horror

Farah presses her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the sound of her own breath. From where she’s crouched in the abandoned convenience store behind the cash register, she’s certain she hasn’t been seen yet. Every nerve in her body is on high alert. It’s freezing here, too. Her toes feel like icicles in her socks, and her coat isn’t nearly thick enough.

Her hand squeezes around the icepick she’d found, her most reliable weapon. It’s a gross and creepy thing, coated in dried blood and things that she doesn’t really want to think about, but it’s the only thing making her feel safe.

Outside the glass, she picks up on muffled groans. The sound sends jolts of paranoia through her body. There is a distant crash and the sound of a car alarm blaring. Her thoughts immediately go to Morgan. Where is she? How is she handling herself? Is she alright?

She figures that, with the sound of the car alarm to hide the sound of her voice, it’s safe to try out her radio. With shaky hands, she presses the button and says, “Morgan? Where are you? I think I lost them.”

There is radio silence from Morgan for some time, a sound that chills Farah, causing her body to shiver from more than just the cold. Then, just as she’s about to try contacting Morgan again, her earpiece bursts to life. It can only be Morgan, but she doesn’t hear Morgan’s voice, she only hears frantic snarling and deafening bangs before the transmission cuts off.

Farah lets a shaky breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. She didn’t hear Morgan’s voice, but she’s got to be alive, right? Right?

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…” she hisses under her breath, crawling on her hands and knees around the counter.

She comes face to face with a yellow smile, skin peeling off bone, an icepick wound straight through the skull. It isn’t moving – good. She reaches hesitantly to flick it hard in its decayed forehead. No response.

She shudders and moves on, crawling towards the glass storefront and peering through the boarded-up window. The coast seems clear.

Zombies were the last thing she’d expected to be tackling for SPECTRE. Apparently, despite the lack of spirits, the Agency ruling on zombies is that they fall under SPECTRE jurisdiction. As such, Chance has seen fit to toss this case, situated in a tiny town in Massachusetts that has been completely overrun with the creatures, at Unit Bravo. The Agency has closed the area off until agents could be sent to clear it out.

Those agents are Farah and Morgan. Rebecca has assigned Nat and Ava to another case entirely. Having Unit Bravo divided doesn’t sit well with Farah; they work better together. They were assured that Morgan and Farah are more than enough to handle this… But there are a _lot_ of zombies and only two of them.

Separated from Morgan, Farah doesn’t really like her odds. She’s quicker than any zombie will ever be, and good with an icepick, she’s realized, but what they lack in speed and skill, they make up for in stealth. You’d think zombies wouldn’t be sneaky, what with the groaning and the snarling and the **feral** instinctive behavior they exhibit, but there is a surprising bit of intellect in the way they hide and “play dead” – so to speak – when looking for victims to bite.

A creature that can inflict humans with an incurable illness that slowly rots their higher brain functions and body? It really makes one wonder why they’d even place these under the jurisdiction of the only division of the Agency made up entirely of the most vulnerable species to these attacks. Suppose it’s lucky they’ve got vampires on the case now.

That is not to say that there’s been any meaningful research into how zombie bites affect vampires. In fact, while some believe the vampire physiology is capable of resisting the virus, nobody’s ever really done any tests. At any rate, Farah doesn’t want to be the one to find out the answer to that question – the hard way.

Farah pulls the door to the store open very slowly, flinching as she hears the sound of the door chime, far too loud for her liking. She holds her icepick out like a lifeline, scanning the street carefully. There doesn’t seem to be anything lurking in the shadows. She suddenly wishes she were facing thralls – at least they’re slower and stupid enough to alert people to their position by constantly chanting their orders like a mantra.

She’s never been more thankful for her ability to be quick on her feet and silent, too. Within minutes, she’s cleared a couple of blocks without attracting a horde of her own. Every so often, she’d stop to dispatch any stragglers on her way with her handy icepick – easy targets she can kill without bringing attention to herself. Their assignment is to get rid of the entire infestation – no point in leaving them meandering aimlessly.

The source of the commotion in the town is at a traffic intersection crowded with abandoned cars, sitting neatly in rows as though they were simply waiting for the light to turn green. Following the trail of parked cars with her eyes leads Farah to the familiar sight of the black Agency SUV. It’s a little beaten up, its alarm is still blaring. And standing on the roof of the car with an entire congregation of undead creatures clawing at her feet, is Morgan, with bulky headphones on, holding up a shotgun.

She takes aim and, with an ear-shattering bang that makes Farah wince in pain, fires at a cluster of zombies by her feet. The shot takes off the heads of at least three of the hundreds that are crowded around the car. Farah watches her repeat the action a few more times. Morgan then lowers the gun, using one of her hands to rummage in her pockets but coming up empty. She’s barely even managed to make a dent in the crowd.

Morgan’s cloudy eyes meet Farah’s at a distance. She moves her hand to her radio and clicks it on. “Farah, listen closely,” she says. “I’m out of ammunition and these things are surrounding me. They’re little idiots so they can’t get me on top of the car, but I need you to do something for me while I’ve got them distracted.”

Farah bites her lip, looking over her shoulder cautiously. “Right. What is it?”

“You need to go to the precinct and grab anything you can carry and bring it back here.”

“How do I get it to you without going through the zombies?”

“I have a plan.”

With that, the radio goes dead.

Farah curses and tries to recall the layout of the town. The map and everything they need for the assignment is stuck in the SUV – including the neutralizing agent that they’re meant to use on the zombies. Said SUV is surrounded by the bloody things.

They don’t even have wi-fi or cell service so she can look up the precinct, which is an even bigger affront to nature than the zombies could ever hope to be.

She decides to go in the direction that she reckons the precinct might be in based on her vague recollection of the map. Besides, it’s a police precinct; how hard could it possibly be to recognize? It’s going to be a big building with police cars around it. Easy-peasy – she hopes.

Turns out, not as easy-peasy as anticipated.

Every single street looks the same, and she could swear she’d passed by the same building several different times, and yet each time it had been on a different street corner. It’s around fifteen minutes in that she starts to wonder if, perhaps, maybe the people in this town deserved to be zombified. Would a good person make a town this winding and confusing? No, she doesn’t think they would.

“Farah!” Morgan snaps through her earpiece.

“What?” Farah snaps back.

“Where the hell are you at with the guns?” Morgan is nearly yelling to make herself heard over the Zombie groans audible in the transmission.

Farah’s eyes dart around nervously. “I’m on my way.”

“Where. _Are._ You?” When Farah hesitates, she hears Morgan sigh. “What do you see around you?”

After quite a bit of yelling on Morgan’s part and lots of running in circles on Farah’s, Morgan manages to lead her successfully to her destination. And it only slightly jeopardized their friendship.

There seem to be a couple zombies aimlessly shambling in the parking lot. Farah darts to one, ramming her icepick into its eye socket. This action attracts the rest of the zombies, but it’s a risk she’s prepared for. She runs to the nearest one, pushing her blade into its forehead before shoving it into another approaching zombie. This buys her time to dash towards the entrance.

Morgan had left the door open and judging by the bullet holes and overturned furniture, she’d left this place in a hurry. As Farah enters, though, she makes sure to shut the door behind her to prevent her little friends from following her in.

Farah quickly sets about searching the building for any weapons she can get her hands on. She finds a large backpack full of schoolbooks laying against one of the desks and turns it over, unceremoniously spilling its contents all over the floor.

“Sorry, whoever owned this,” she mumbles. “I need this more than you.” She slings the empty bag over her shoulder.

The precinct has a shooting range – likely where Morgan got those bulky headphone-looking things. Farah snags some ear protection for herself as well, figuring she may need it, too. She also finds a well-stocked armory with a whole host of firearms – some she knows the names of and some she doesn’t.

“Jackpot!” She begins to stuff the weaponry and ammunition into her backpack. She loads one of the pistols and shoves it into her jacket pocket, along with the corresponding ammunition.

Once she feels she’s sufficiently stocked up, she zips her bag up and makes her way back to the door. The shambling corpses are still trying to claw their way in, growing more frantic as they see her approach them.

She snorts. “Can’t get me through the door, dumbass!”

Almost as though it had heard her taunt, a zombie, which looks like it must have once been a teenage girl, slams its fist into the door, and to her horror, Farah hears the glass crack. She inadvertently takes a step back from the door.

“Okay, jeez. Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

She gets a running start before slamming her body into the glass, shattering the door completely and knocking the zombies out of her way in the process. The disoriented creatures take a moment to get back to their feet and shamble after her. Unfortunately, the sound seems to have garnered the attention of zombies she hadn’t even realized were in the vicinity.

Farah feels the weight of the gun in her pocket. She hops in place anxiously, watching the directions the zombies are approaching from and planning her escape. After her shouting match with Morgan, she at least knows the general direction she needs to go in order to get back to her partner.

She pulls the pistol out of her pocket and points it firmly in the direction she intends to go, nailing each of the zombies lurching from that direction in the head with a bullet before starting her mad dash. Given how loud the gunshot had been and how it seemed to echo against the buildings in the area, she determines that stealth is out of the question now.

She ducks into an alleyway and climbs onto a fire-escape, out of reach of her pursuers, watching the creatures gather around her, giving her a good idea of just how many were following her. There’s over a dozen of them. She debates shooting a couple and taking the rest out with her icepick until she notices the apartment window behind her.

The shattered glass of the window only attracts the single occupant of the apartment she has intruded upon, one that was all too easy to dispatch with her icepick. Otherwise, descending the building is rather uneventful. A couple more zombies crop up, but nothing like the crowd that had been chasing her.

Sure, the detour takes her some time, but hopefully she’s managed to shake her **feral** fan club.

By the time she reaches the intersection again, she realizes something terrible: the crowd surrounding Morgan has gotten even _bigger_. That car alarm is not doing her any favors.

When Morgan spots Farah, she clicks her radio on. “You’ve got the guns, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I want you to start shooting into the crowd.”

Farah blinks in disbelief. “Um, that would draw their attention to me.”

“Yeah, right. Exactly.”

“I can’t fight the whole horde, Morgan” Farah hisses.

Morgan sighs. “You won’t. Just trust me. But I need you to get them away from the car.” With that, she presses a button on the car remote and the alarm turns off, thrusting the intersection into an eerie silence, broken only by the incessant moans and snarls of the zombies.

Farah doesn’t want to. She _really_ doesn’t want to. But she does trust Morgan, and she trusts the fact that any death threats leveraged at her from Morgan have been false alarms so far. That being said, she pulls an assault rifle out of her backpack, loads it, and takes aim at the horde.

“Eat this!” she cries, unloads a hail of bullets on the creatures. Even with the ear protection, the sound is incredibly grating – it’s a wonder how Morgan handled it, given her senses are far more sensitive than Farah’s.

Bit by bit, the creatures begin to turn away from Morgan, having found a new target for their blood thirst. Farah would be lying if she said the sight of the swarm coming for her didn’t scare the shit out of her. She stops shooting for less than a minute to climb on top of a parked minivan to keep them from grabbing at her. She has to admit to herself that, in spite of the circumstances, this is pretty thrilling.

When she glances back at the Agency SUV, Morgan is no longer there, but she doesn’t have the time to wonder where she’s gone. She takes aim again, trying to ensure that whatever shots she’s taking actually take some of the creatures down, otherwise she’s just wasting precious ammunition.

When Morgan reappears, she’s behind the horde, holding a large canister attached to a flexible hose. She grins at Farah before aiming her hose at the creatures and flicking the switch on the side of the tube. It releases a purple mist into the air that begins to distribute itself throughout the crowd.

As the neutralizing agent begins to take effect, one-by-one, zombies begin to drop at Morgan’s feet, clearing a path from her to Farah, who is still spraying bullets at the ones directly in front of her. It’s like watching Moses part the Red Sea. Any zombies who make the mistake of thinking Morgan is an easier target than Farah merely fall prey to the deadly concoction as they cross her path.

The chemical is deadly efficient, taking only minutes to spread across the hundreds of zombies in the area – due in no small part to the fact that they seemed to run directly into it, like flies to honey.

And when it’s all over, not a single growl or moan is audible. Aside from the ringing in their ears from the gunfire, it’s a very welcome calm. They feel their bodies ridding themselves of the tension they once carried. A euphoria that doesn’t last long once they remember –

“That wasn’t all of them, was it?” Farah remarks, frowning.

“Not by a long-shot.”

“We’re gonna have to go on a scavenger hunt to find the rest.”

“Yep.”

“That’s gonna suck.”

“It sure will.” Morgan sighs, reaching for her cigarettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who had zombies on their TWC Unsolved bingo?


	16. Grief

Coming back to SPECTRE HQ feels like finding oneself in a nightmare they thought they’d woken up from, only to find it picking right back up where it left off. Nothing ever changes – not the people in their white jumpsuits, nor the orchids, unaffected by the seasons. The harsh white lights that bathe the giant common area day or night give off the feeling of being stuck in limbo – a carefully designed purgatory with a minimalist corporate flavor.

Flanked by Ava and Nat, Rebecca strides across the glossy white tile floor, trying to calm her nerves by focusing on the rhythmic clacking of her heels. She lets the sound echo in her head, pushing back the fear and the anxiety. Chance is just a woman. A human woman. And not only is Rebecca a talented agent in her own right, but she’s accompanied by two of the Agency’s finest. There’s nothing to fear.

Rebecca manages to still her heartbeat, a skill she’s honed over the decades she’s spent working with Unit Bravo. She trusts them not to pry, but the ability has served her with other supernaturals as well. She paints the portrait of the cool, unaffected agent, steely-eyed and steady – though it is less of a persona and more of a survival instinct necessary in the unforgiving environment of the Agency.

Nat takes the lead in the winding corridors of the SPECTRE facility, having spent a lot of her time buried in research here with Unit Epsilon. There is so much knowledge here about spirits and shades, about the realm known by Agency scientists as the Aperture, and about what this says about life after death. And yet, for each answered question, several new ones sprout, like weeds.

A meeting room has been booked for Unit Bravo to discuss the future of their partnership with SPECTRE. It is simple – four white walls, each split in half by a slender rose-colored LED light that hugs the wall like a ribbon. A simple square table sits in the center, surrounded by four white leather seats.

As Rebecca and Nat take their seats at the table, they catch Ava standing alert by the door, body rigid, as though she’d sensed a threat. She stares into the room, her emerald eyes wide and searching, her lips in a taut line.

“Agent du Mortain,” Rebecca calls out. “Is everything alright?”

Her words soften Ava’s edge, like pouring water over ice. Ava nods once before entering the room and taking a seat beside Rebecca.

“Are you sure?” Nat asks, reaching across the table to grab ahold of Ava’s hand.

Ava snaps her hand away, tucking it into her lap. “I’m fine.”

Rebecca nods, turning to Nat. “Who is joining us and Director Chance from Unit Epsilon?”

“We’ve arrived a bit early, but Rhode and Trigger have agreed to meet us at 11,” Nat replies. Her voice sounds so distant to Rebecca, as though it were a figment of her imagination. Beside her, Ava’s finger taps against the table idly to a soundless beat.

“Very well. We’ll wait for them.”

Ava continues to tap the table.

Rebecca grows aware of the sound of her own heartbeat in her chest again, recognizing the beat Ava’s playing with her finger. Her gut twists. Why would she be listening to that?

“Agent du Mortain, could you please stop that?” she snaps a little too sharply, causing the woman to jump in her seat. She doesn’t even recognize her voice as it comes out of her mouth. It’s so quiet and the lights are so bright.

She’s reminded of the heart monitor, beeping steadily – a little too slowly. She thinks of the man in the bed, his chest moving up and down, his eyes shut – never to open. She thinks of the fingers that feathered over his cheeks – far too tenderly.

No, Ava isn’t tapping the beat of Rebecca’s heart; she’s tapping _that_ heartbeat from memory.

The fog in her mind is more of a gelatinous soup; she could swear her head has gotten pounds heavier since entering the SPECTRE facility. She lets out a long sigh, burying her head in her hands – if only to relieve her neck. She tries to breathe slowly, but the air feels like poison and smells like those damned sickly-sweet orchids. It’s completely inescapable.

She doesn’t even hear herself when she asks to be excused. She only finds herself out of her seat, Ava and Nat watching her from inside the meeting room. There’s something in Commanding Agent du Mortain’s eyes that she does not recognize.

It doesn’t get easier to breathe the farther down the corridors she goes – it only gets more isolated, be it the endless white expanse that finds her at every turn, or the chilling lack of SPECTRE personnel. How long has it been since she’s seen a door? At this point, she’s prepared to open any door if only for the change in scenery.

The heart monitor plays in a maddening loop. She wishes she could hear anything else.

And then the singing starts.

Her heart lurches in her chest. Her head starts to hurt. Her legs feel heavy. But she pushes on, determined – no, _desperate_ – to find the owner of the voice.

It is soft and mousy, and the words are jumbled like someone still trying to figure out how to make words with their mouth. It is uncertain and sweet and terribly familiar. Try as she may, she can’t bring up the memory associated with this song – only knows by instinct that it has to be there, hidden in the darkness.

Hugging the wall leads her to the first door she sees in a while – a hospital room. It looks almost identical to the one Agent Aryan had been in. The curtains are drawn and the door to the room has been left ajar. The singing is coming from within.

Her hand closes around the doorframe cautiously, and she takes a moment to try and steady herself before pushing the door open and entering.

“Mama?”

She is greeted by a pair of big hazel eyes, messy ginger curls, and a small pink pout.

“Nayzak?” Rebecca’s voice is strained and breathless. No, it can’t be her – not really. This is a child, barely old enough to walk. Her daughter is a woman now. This is a stranger.

The girl waddles over in a blue sailor dress. She stops just a couple of feet away. “Why’s Mama crying?”

Rebecca’s hand shoots to her face, only to feel wetness at her fingertips. “What is this?” she says, her voice shaking. Her eyes linger on the child for a moment before she stumbles into the room.

The sound of the heart monitor feels much too loud.

Her legs guide her to the bed, where a man is resting. She half anticipated what she’d see, but it still knocks the wind out of her. She clutches the side of the bed so tightly her fingers start to ache.

The man that lies before her has dark brown curls and a light brown freckled complexion. Even at rest, a dimple hides at the right side of his mouth. Rebecca’s fingers shakily reach to trace the lines of his face.

Her voice collapses completely in her chest. “Oh, no, Rook…” She cannot control the frantic sobs that slip through her lips like water bubbling over. Her **grief** now fully realized, she feels it spill out of her, splitting her at the seams. Her hand now cupping his face fully, she lets his name escape her lips again and again and again. Maybe if she says it enough times, the words will reach his ears and she’ll see his eyes again.

Something small collides with her feet, but she doesn’t have eyes for anything – anyone – but him. She doesn’t dare close her eyes or look away for a second, as though he could wake up and she’d miss it. Why Rook? _How_ Rook? He’s alive. He’s warm. And she’s touching him.

“Is Baba sick?” The small voice is uncertain.

She ignores it; she can’t handle it right now. She can’t handle the voices – of the doctors, of the Agents, of her daughter. It’s too much. It’s all far too much. Rook is hanging on the edge of a cliff and she’s the only one holding him up – the only one who can – and he won’t even close his fingers around her hand.

“Do you hate me, Mama?”

She wants to bury her sobs in his chest, to feel him wrap his arms around her. She barely even recognizes him like this.

“Do you want me to die, too?”

The question strikes her like a dagger to the back. Her eyes glide down to the small face pressed into her leg. It’s Nayzak’s face, but she’s never made that expression before. The large eyes glimmer with malice and rage. Her tiny fingers dig into Rebecca’s slacks.

“Do you wish I died instead? That you had him and not me? Do you wish I were never born?”

Each question is a set of claws gripping her heart tighter, squeezing it like a ripe lemon, letting the acidic juices dribble down her, burning her skin as they do. Her skin feels hot where Nayzak is touching her.

“Why would you say that?” she manages to say. She pries the fingers off of her and retreats to the other side of the room, turning her face to the wall, away from those eyes. They’re all wrong. They’re not _hers_.

“I dunno, Rebecca. You made it pretty clear. I just wanna hear you say it.”

This time the voice is older but still her. Still Nayzak. And this is a tone she does recognize. She’s heard it far, _far_ too many times. She regrets the pointless fights they’ve had.

“Turn around and say it to my face, Rebecca,” she orders, her voice distorted like it knows it doesn’t belong here.

“How are you here?” Rebecca asks, clutching her head. It is starting to feel like every memory from Rook’s death up until the present day is flashing through her mind. Twenty years in the span of minutes. Her stomach feels like it’s about to burst into confetti under her skin.

“How are _you_ here?” Nayzak challenges. “You left us both behind in this room.”

Rebecca’s mind protests. Every single word sounds like an echo. “No, I’ve never been here before…” They never found his body. They never had a body to bury. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“Then run away. Leave us both here again and don’t come back. You’re good at that.”

Everything is so loud, and it feels like it’s building up in a crescendo in her head. Each beat makes her skull vibrate so intensely it could shatter at any moment. Her breathing grows heavy and labored, but every breath she takes is orchids. Those damned orchids. Even now. Even here.

She hardly even notices the hands that grip her arms firmly, nor does she notice the large shadow that cocoons her – just that the scent is no longer orchids. It is heady and familiar.

“Agent Sarhan?” It’s there on the fringes of her mind.

She looks up into icy green eyes.

“Agent Sarhan, stay with me.”

“Ava? How… how did you get here?”

Ava frowns deeply. For a moment, she glances over Rebecca’s shoulder, her expression completely unreadable, and Rebecca wonders if Ava can see Nayzak over there, too. She meets Rebecca’s eyes once more. “Where…” She sighs, her jaw tensing. “Where do you think we are?”

Unable to stop her body from shaking, Rebecca turns to look over her shoulder. Behind her is an empty white desk in a half-moon room. And behind that desk is the gold-trimmed white door with the orchids on either side of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you like that angst? ;)


	17. Alternate Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had..... WAY too much fun writing this one. It should be illegal.

A mystical fog spreads across a bar. The bar is completely dark, aside from the flickering of the neon signs on the walls – alternating between pink, violet, and blue. Through the thick soupy fog, the sounds of muffled screaming can be heard.

The manager of the bar, a middle-aged man with pasty white skin, his hair barely clinging to the skin of his head, lies on the ground, frantically flailing about. His stained striped polo shirt and tan slacks appear to have been doused in a sticky pale green substance. It clings to him in globules that dribble down him like saliva.

Wrapped around his face is a large hand, with long slender fingers – its sickly translucent emerald skin sticks to its bones like vacuum packaging. The man screams into the cold and rubbery skin desperately, and yet even through that, the volume of his voice is still loud enough to drown out the drone of the TV where an advertisement is playing.

_“Have you experienced anything spooky? Things going bump in the night?”_

_“Have you seen ghosts, ghouls, or apparitions?”_

_“Give the Specters a call.”_

_“We are here FOR YOU.”_

***

The shrill sound of a telephone is abruptly interrupted by an apathetic voice bordering on irritated. Hard not to be when she’s been smelling sulfur all day. “Specter HQ. How can we help you?”

Nat, wearing a pair of loose high-waisted jeans and a vibrant green silk button up, rolls her eyes. “You could stand to be a bit more friendly with our clients, Morgan.”

Morgan waves her off dismissively before running her fingers through her dark mullet bangs. She leans over her desk to put pen to paper. “Did you get a good look at the thing? Right… green? And it smells like what?”

A gentle hand finds itself on Nat’s shoulder. She turns to find their Commanding Agent Tom Selleck smiling warmly at her. “You’re too hard on her, Nat.”

Nat can’t help the blush that blossoms across her cheeks at the touch. “You’re too easy on her, Tom,” she tells him, leaning slightly into his touch. When his hand moves away, she feels her body shudder in protest at the loss.

Rolling by on a pair of rainbow-colored rollerblades, Farah winks at Tom. “Nice threads, boss!” She points at Tom’s impeccable Hawaiian print shirt and his tan shorts, which stop at his mid-thighs and display his perfectly toned legs.

He winks right back at her. “Don’t forget to file those reports, kiddo!”

“You know it, boss!”

Morgan slams the receiver of the phone down. She rolls around in her seat, the severe expression on her face softening when she sees Tom already watching her with interest. “That was Harry’s Hangout – that gross sports bar downtown. Apparently, Harry Harding, the manager, was found covered in slime – said a ghost trashed the place before attacking him.”

Tom nods, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. “Looks like Mr. Harding’s found himself in one hell of a… _sticky_ situation.”And then he grins, his pearly whites shining in the fluorescent light.

Even Morgan cracks a smile at that.

He grabs his utility belt, carrying all their Agency issued equipment, and fastens it around his waist. He then stops at the plaque on the wall, polishing it with his sleeve. It had been awarded in 1983, just a few years ago, to his Unit for their years of exceptional service at the Agency. They’d even granted them the special title, Unit Alpha Plus, the only team of that title across every Agency facility across the globe. Tom is proud of his team – no, _his family._ They’ve been through a lot but no matter what life throws at them, he knows they’ve got his back, and he’s got theirs.

“Let’s roll, gang!”’

Tom leads the group as they descend their office building to the parking garage, where his bright red convertible is waiting for them. He braces himself against the door and leaps smoothly into the driver’s seat before winking at his team.

Morgan shuffles wordlessly into the backseat and Farah follows, settling beside her, rollerblades and all. She leans against the passenger seat in front of her, amusement in her amber eyes. “What you waiting for, Nat?”

Nat stares at the car for a moment, unsure why she is so overcome with reluctance. “I just… Why are we taking the car?” she asks.

Morgan narrows her eyes at her. “It’s a two-hour walk, Nat.”

The words seem to circle Nat’s head for a moment before settling between her ears. “Oh, right,” she says. She catches a reassuring smile from Tom as she climbs into the seat beside him.

As Tom pulls out of the parking space, Farah pushes herself into the space between him and Nat. “Don’t forget to play the new a-ha cassette I bought, Tom!”

His eyes twinkle as he pulls the album out of his pocket with a flourish. With one hand on the wheel, he uses the other to open the plastic case and place the tape into the car’s cassette player. The hit a-ha track ‘ _Take on Me’_ begins to come through the speakers as the team takes to the streets.

***

Nat runs a hand through her perfectly feathered hair as she steps out of the passenger-side seat of the convertible. She flashes the police officers at the scene her Agency ID badge and passes through the yellow caution tape to the dingy old bar.

The building has seen better days, and she’d wager that the ghost-attack wasn’t the only thing wrong with this place. She steps into place beside Tom who is interrogating one of the police officers at the scene with the same easy-going smile on his face. It’s a wonder the young officer hasn’t melted into a puddle at his feet yet.

Morgan leans against the exterior of the old brick building, placing a cigarette between her lips and inhaling deeply. She is incredibly sensitive to ghostly energy, so it’s not surprising that she needs an extra kick to help her cope with the assault on her senses.

True to Harry’s word, the interior of the bar is completely and utterly ‘trashed’ There isn't a barstool left untouched nor a table left intact. There is shattered glass littering the ground – not to mention how Nat’s heels stick to the ground as she walks; she doubts ectoplasm is the only thing she’s stepping in. But the stench – that is what is most excruciating to handle. It’s like a mix of rotten eggs and wet dog and it’s the kind of stench that bullies its way into your nose even if you’re holding your breath.

Farah rolls in on her skates, placing a gloved hand to the bar counter to steady herself. “Man, how do humans go to places like this?”

Nat turns her gaze to Farah in alarm. “Humans? Farah, _you’re_ human.”

Tom’s hand finds its way to Nat’s shoulder again as he, too, steps into the bar. “Just one of Farah’s quirks, eh?” He chuckles, the sound of it alleviating the alarm she had once felt. He then removes it to crouch on the ground beside an ectoplasm stain in the shape of a person. “Let’s get to investigating, ladies!”

Morgan’s grey eyes survey the scene. She’d disposed her cigarette outside, but her hands clench as though missing the feeling of it between her fingers. “It’s still here somewhere,” she says, taking slow and methodical steps through the bar, careful to avoid the debris and ectoplasm on the ground.

Tom gets to his feet and places his hands on his hips. “Great work, Agent! You think you can pinpoint its location?”

Her lips tilt in a half-smile so brief you’d miss it if you blinked. She then nods before beginning to pace along the walls, her hand hovering millimeters away from the wall as though trailing along a second invisible wall.

Nat bites her lip as she looks down at the stain on the ground. “I’m so glad Mr. Harding is alright.” She lifts her head to look at Tom. “Where is he right now?”

“The hospital I imagine,” he replies, taking out his EMF detector, measuring the readings over the stain. “But don’t worry, Nat. Probably nothing more than a concussion. You know how these cases go.”

Nat does know, doesn’t she? She shakes her head and sighs. “Something stinks about this case, Tom, and it’s not just the ectoplasm.”

He chuckles, his hazel eyes meeting her brown ones. “Is that your sharp intuition talking again?”

She nods, cheeks tinting at the praise. “Don’t worry; I’ll get to the bottom of it – whatever it is.”

“I have no doubt,” he assures her. “I’ve known you for years, Nat. There’s not a case you can’t crack.” He winks playfully at her.

The gesture sends a surge of renewed vigor through her. She beams at him. “Thanks, _old friend_.” She feels a spike go through her mind, struggling to get the rest of her words out. “That… That means a lot… coming from you.” The words sound slurred as they leave her mouth, and she feels the ground disappear beneath her feet. She grabs the bar counter to keep steady.

A pair of strong hands grip her shoulders, and she looks up into the hypnotic eyes of her handsome leader. She feels her heart steady in her chest at the sight of his concerned face. As she comes to her senses, she begins to realize just how close his face is to hers and turns beet red at the thoughts going through her mind. “T-Tom…”

“Easy there, Nat.” His voice is warm like honeyed tea, and it fills her with a sense of calm. “Why don’t you sit this one out? Wait for us in the car, alright?”

“But –” she protests, but she can’t think of a single reason to disagree with him. She clicks her tongue and sighs. “No, you’re right. I’m just… in a state… I need to clear my mind.”

He squeezes her shoulders once before letting her go, putting a gap between them. “We can take it from here.”

As Nat exits the bar, Tom’s attention turns to Morgan. A very pronounced scowl is now on her face as she stares at the leader. “It’s right here! I can smell it, but I can’t find it anywhere!” She kicks a glass in frustration, sending it rolling along the floor until it hits one of the walls, shattering on impact.

“Woah, chill out, Morgan,” Farah exclaims, flying over to Morgan and putting a gentle hand on her forearm. “It’s bound to jump out somewhere. We’ll find it!”

“The kid’s right, Morgan. Don’t give up,” Tom says, approaching the two women. “I know what you’re capable of.”

Morgan bites her lip in guilt at having shown Tom that outburst. “Yeah, right…” she mumbles. She inhales deeply, combing through her hair and shutting her eyes in concentration.

“Alright, ghouls!” Farah cries out into the empty bar. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way! Why don’t you surrender, and we _won’t_ eviscerate you!”

Tom chuckles. “I’d listen to what she’s saying, ghosts!” he says loudly, matching his voice with Farah’s.

She giggles. “Thanks for having my back, o’ fearless leader – Oh!” A sharp pain flashes across her temples, causing her to double over, slipping in her skates and falling to the grimy bar floor. She winces in pain, both from the fall and from the sudden flash of pain. She feels her stomach flip-flop. “Oh, I think I’m gonna hurl…” she moans.

“Farah!” Morgan cries, crouching to help her teammate back up. “Are you alright?”

Farah glares at her incredulously once she’s back on her feet. “No, I said I was gonna hurl. Now, move!” She pushes past Morgan and glides over to the bar, bending over the sink to retch.

Morgan winces at the sound. “Oh, gross!”

Tom rushes over to her, dread overtaking him. First Nat, and now Farah. Something in this place is making his agents sick, and he needs to find out what before it hits him or Morgan next. He places a hand on Farah’s back. “You gonna need to step out, kid?” he asks gently. He knows that fighting a ghost with only half of the team is gonna be risky, but the well-being of his people is top priority. That’s the secret to the leadership skills that awarded his team the “Alpha Plus” title.

Farah raises her head briefly to smile at her leader and give him a thumbs up, but she can’t even say anything before she’s forced to bury her head in the sink again.

He sighs, meeting eyes with Morgan, who has an equally worried look on her face. It also looks like she’s realized that it’s the ghost making their teammates sick. Knowing Morgan, she’s probably pissed. That’s good; it means she’s gonna be putting her all into this case.

Morgan approaches them, shrugging off her leather jacket, leaving her in a black sleeveless band tee, and placing it around Farah’s shoulders before moving her towards the exit of the bar so she can join Nat in the car. She then moves to the center of the bar, staring intently at the stain on the ground as though there were something it could tell her that she doesn’t already know.

“I don’t like this,” Tom tells her, his voice low and sterner than it’s been all day. He stands beside her with his arms crossed, looking down at the ground.

“I don’t either,” she says through a grimace. Her gaze turns up at him and instinctively, she sniffs.

“Morgan?”

Rotten eggs.

She leans in so close she can almost feel his mustache tickle her face. She then grabs a handful of his blue Hawaiian print shirt, her lips hovering beside his ear. “Where the fuck is Ava, you creep?”

She feels Tom’s chest rumble with laughter. “What are you talking about, Morgan?”

She snarls and shoves him, launching him at the wall. His back hits the brick with so much force it cracks. He drops onto his face, and she watches him warily as he presses his hands to the ground and pushes himself up. Once standing again, he tugs his head in either side, snapping it in place.

“Now, that wasn’t very nice.” That easygoing smile is ever-present on his face. “We’re in this together, Morgan. Don’t let the ghost trick us into turning against one another. I’m the only person you’ve got.”

His words are like fog being pumped directly into her head through her ears, and she refuses to accept them. “Yeah, right, you slimy motherfucker!”

She runs and slams her body into his; this time, she sends it right through the back wall of the bar. The two of them go tumbling into the back alley, landing in a tangle atop the debris. She reaches into the bricks for his Hawaiian shirt, pulling him up by his collar.

Tom’s face is bruised and battered, and crucially, very green. His skin is bubbling and morphing like sludge. Even the mustache slides down the side of his face. He’s not even trying to hide the stench anymore; the scent blasts Morgan’s nostrils, making her face twist in disgust.

She reaches into her back pocket. To her horror, the sealing crystal is not there.

Just as she begins to contemplate her next actions, “Tom Selleck” begins to howl in pain. Looking down, she notices the green slime begin to melt like ice cream under the sun. The shirt in her hands is deflating and there’s no longer anything solid between her and the debris from the wall.

“Morgan!”

Morgan’s eyes catch a relieving sight. Nat is holding up a black sealing crystal with a triumphant grin on her face. Behind her is Farah rolling towards them on her skates. She gives Morgan two thumbs up, twirling in place and nearly rolling directly into a wall – stopped in the nick of time by Nat’s quick reflexes.

***

It takes Morgan a longer time than usual to shower; the gunk was harder to clean off herself than she thought it would be. Still, it’s good to see the Commanding Agent again.

Ava awaits the team in the facility living area, with her arms crossed over her chest. There’s a vague expression on her face which could be anywhere between displeasure and apathy.

Farah has already slung herself over an armchair, a Walkman laying on her stomach. _“Set me free why don't cha, babe?”_ she hums. _“Get out my life why don't cha, babe? 'Cause you don't really love me! You just keep me hangin' on!”_

Nat is sitting on the sofa closest to Ava, staring at her lap.

Seeing as the whole team is there, Morgan slinks over to a corner and perches herself atop an end table, careful not to knock over the table lamp already sitting there.

Finally, Nat breaks the silence. “I can’t believe Tom tricked us like that.”

Ava glares. “You know that wasn’t really Tom Selleck, right?”

Nat sighs and shakes her head. “I think I need some time.” She rises from her seat and promptly leaves the room, a dejected expression on her face. Ava’s green eyes follow her, disbelief written all over her face.

“Seriously?”

Pulling her headphones down, Farah says, “I’m more bummed we got demoted back to Unit Bravo.”

“Demoted?” Ava’s face cracks. “What do you mean _demoted_?”

Farah puts her headphones back on and swings her legs back around the couch, getting to her feet. She smiles at Ava and shrugs before dashing out of the room.

Still drying her hair idly with her towel, Morgan frowns. “He did have a nice car.”

Ava gives Morgan a look as though to say, “Et tu, Brute?”

This time, it’s Ava who leaves the room, raising her hands in the air in exasperation.

“It was a convertible!” Morgan yells after her.


	18. Empty

Autumn colors paint the town of Wayhaven – from the turning of the leaves to the decorations hung up on the lampposts in the town square by the parks and recreation department. Paper lamps crisscross over the public park at the center. Although it’s far too early in the day to turn them on now, they’re sure to be quite the marvel at night.

Farah can’t keep the grin off her face as she twirls underneath a banner that reads “Wayhaven Fall Festival” She drops to a crouch next to a cluster of pumpkin decorations, plucking an ashy white one, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, and holding it up to Nat. “Hey Natkins! Look how teeny this one is!” she gushes.

Nat leans over beside her. “That doesn’t belong to you, Farah,” she scolds, her tone light with amusement. “I’ll get you one just like it after we finish our assignment.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Farah places the pumpkin back exactly as she’d found it and stands upright. She links arms with Nat as they move to catch up with the rest of their team. “Fine. But I’m holding you to that.”

An airy chuckle escapes Nat’s lips.

A morning breeze passes through Unit Bravo, causing Rebecca to close her jacket more tightly around her body. An immovable frown is plastered on her face as she and Commanding Agent du Mortain walk step in step through the festival-grounds. Volunteers dart around preparing the booths and attractions, not paying the visitors any mind.

“Are you concerned about it being so close?” Ava mumbles, glancing at Rebecca from beneath her aviator sunglasses.

Rebecca doesn’t have to ask her the obvious question: Close to what? She knows exactly what – or rather _who_ Ava is talking about. Unit Bravo is aware she has family in Wayhaven, but they have never met her daughter, and she’d like to keep it that way. Better to keep Nayzak far from this world and its dangers.

Her silence tells Ava all she needs to know.

Their contact today is a fellow supernatural – a relief to be sure. Their SPECTRE work has forced the vampires to surround themselves with humans, which is not an entirely comfortable situation for them. They are fortunate that they’ve gotten along with Unit Epsilon for the most part, but that’s to be expected from fellow Agents.

The name of the supernatural in question is Maggie Flowers, a witch who’d been exiled from her coven and has been living amongst humans. The reasons behind her exile are none of the Agency’s concern, however, as long as she hasn’t broken any Agency rules – and she hasn’t, to their knowledge.

They find Maggie at what appears to be a puppet show booth perched on a table. She’s younger than expected – no older than 21 years old – and petite enough that she could pass for even younger. She’s dressed in a black off-shoulder midi dress with orange detailing and a spiderweb pattern along the skirt, and atop her tight straw-colored curls sits a pointed witch hat. Subtle.

“Oh, when they said you’d be tall, I didn’t realize they meant _‘tall’_ tall,” she says, eyeing both Nat and Ava with her dark eyes.

Farah shoots an offended look at Morgan, who barely acknowledges her beyond turning exactly 15 degrees away from her.

Rebecca steps forward, offering her hand in greeting. “You must be Miss Flowers.”

A wry grin spreads across Maggie’s face. “I am indeed.” She accepts the greeting.

“These are my agents,” Rebecca continues professionally. “Agent du Mortain, Agent Sewell, Agent Morgan, and Agent Hauville.” She points at each of the vampires in turn.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Maggie’s lashes flutter suggestively in Agent Sewell’s direction, who, in turn, can’t hide the amused smile that crosses her face.

Farah traces her fingers along the wooden puppet theater box. The surface is smooth and painted in a way that almost resembles stained glass. The curtain drawn over the stage is surprisingly soft to the touch and delicately embroidered with golden rose patterns. “Is this yours?”

Her words light Maggie up like a sparkler. “Oh! It is! I’ve been working on it all week! It’s gonna be a hit tonight at the festival!” She rolls her eyes. “But I dunno about the mayor holding the festival on a Tuesday. Like… that’s a school night! And I get he can’t control when the Hunter’s Moon shows, but like… it doesn’t _have_ to be on the day—"

“Do you have anywhere less open to speak?” Ava blurts out, interrupting the other woman’s rambling. She is almost robotically stoic, but anyone who knows her would recognize the hints of annoyance in her stiff posture.

Maggie’s lazy smile is unstoppable in the face of Ava’s immovable bluntness. She hops down from the table and places her hands together. “The graveyard’s just around the corner.”

“Graveyard?” Nat asks, but gets nothing more than a singsong “You’ll see!” in response.

True to Maggie’s word, the walk to the graveyard is brief and allows Unit Bravo to view the old picturesque buildings and historical streets on the way. What Wayhaven lacks in the flashy attractions of the city, it more than makes up for in the elegance of the architecture and the perfect balance of urbanism and nature.

The Wayhaven Cemetery is a large, gated plot of land. It’s the only graveyard in the small town, which means that almost everyone who dies here is buried here. Rebecca’s brow creases in a frown. Well, not _everyone_.

Maggie leads the group to an ancient willow surrounded by stone benches. The branches of the tree hang low, leaves hanging around it like a yellow curtain. She skips ahead and plops down in the center of the forward-facing bench.

Rebecca and Unit Bravo gather around her in a circle – all but Farah, whose amber eyes look past the tree and at the mausoleum behind it. There is a flash of dirty white fabric and a face – not far enough that she cannot recognize the grimace. Her brows knot in concern.

Poppy never stopped appearing to Farah after the incident with Ava at Wythinghall manor, but she’s had a hard time convincing her teammates that the ghost exists what with the fact that they have all denied ever seeing it – even Ava. She really is one hell of a clingy friend, that Poppy. Thankfully, the incident with Ava is the only time Poppy has ever been hostile. Ever since then, she’s gone back to blending in with the scenery.

It is Nat that notices Farah’s reluctance and offers her a soft smile. “Are you joining us, Farah?”

Farah tears her eyes off of Poppy before plastering a large grin on her face and rejoining her team. Nat links her arm with the younger agent, pulling her into the circle with them. She keeps her arm around Farah as they speak to Maggie.

“I’m kinda glad they sent a normal Agency team instead of those Specter types,” Maggie starts, losing the flirtatious tone her voice once carried. “’Cuz, truth be told, it’s not the restless spirits that are the problem.”

“And what is the problem?” Ava locks her emerald gaze upon the other woman expectantly.

“An Ifrit,” Maggie replies, “A sneaky one, too.”

Farah leans in curiously. “I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with an Ifrit. Have you guys?”

Nat bites her lips. “Ava and I have, a couple of times. The Afarit are Djinn who are categorized by malicious intent – especially towards humans. They’re not particularly difficult to deal with, but Maggie’s not wrong about them being sneaky.”

“Meaning?” Morgan asks impatiently, her hand reaching into her pocket for a cigarette and her lighter.

“They can choose when they’d like to be visible to others,” Nat explains. “They can also take on non-threatening forms, like animals, to hide in plain sight.”

“And how were you able to see this one?” Ava crosses her arms, addressing the witch.

Maggie links her fingers beneath her chin, tilts her head, and looks up at Ava with wide doe-like eyes. “I’m special.” When she realizes that Ava is unamused by this response, she straightens up and explains, “I’m able to see things that others can’t. I can see lots of the creatures that are invisible to even other supernaturals. I’m just quirky like that.” She shrugs nonchalantly.

“And what did it do?” A puff of smoke wafts from Morgan’s lips as she speaks.

“It’s been rousing the dead is what it’s doing!” Maggie rolls her eyes. “Like my job is hard enough without Old Man Fredricks threatening to murder me because he can’t find his wife’s ghost, when she just died another town over.”

“Your job?” Nat asks.

“I work the night shift here,” Maggie replies, her tone laced with achievement. “And it’s usually a pretty chill gig. Well, until a week ago.” She sighs heavily. “I thought it was pranksters at first, ‘cuz, y’know, _nothing bad_ happens in Wayhaven. It’s why I moved here.”

Rebecca frowns. “And when did you see this Ifrit?”

“A couple nights ago. I was making my rounds. Caught the fucker red-handed.” She slams her fist into her palm. “He was pulling spirits out of their graves. Absolute fucking sacrilege! I don’t know what he wants to do to them, but I don’t trust it one bit.”

Nat hums. “What makes you think he wants to do anything at all to them?”

Maggie scoffs. “Well, Afarit and ghosts don’t mix. They’re probably trying to send the dead upon the living or something. Fuck if I know.”

“I can see he’s got the Halloween spirit!” Farah snorts and grins impishly until Morgan elbows her in the side.

Maggie stifles a laugh. “Y’know what? You’re not wrong about that. Probably getting ready for some All Hallows Eve action.”

Nat gives Maggie a reassuring smile that causes her poor witch heart to thud loudly in her chest. “We’ll get to the bottom of this Maggie.”

Rebecca turns to her team. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I have some business to attend to in Wayhaven. Meet me back in the facility when you’re done.”

Ava nods stiffly.

With that, Unit Bravo splits up to investigate the area, each member covering a different zone of the cemetery. It’s quite a large plot of land, so even split-up, each member has a vast area to cover. It’s still relatively early in the day, however, so Ava has ordered them to meet up again at noon at the old willow tree.

Farah has been assigned the north-eastern quadrant of the graveyard. This zone houses several fancy mausoleums – likely belonging to some of the old money families of Wayhaven. Even the grass looks more expensive here – and it likely is.

Poppy peeks out at her from beside one of the larger mausoleum buildings. The stone carvings along the sides are incredibly intricate. In an abstract style, a woman in an elegant gown is depicted, sitting beside a well, surrounded by roses. Farah circles Poppy, passing her by to trace her fingers over the carvings. She doesn’t pay Poppy any mind as her head turns to follow.

It’s hard to tell what she’s supposed to be looking for. She supposes that her spirit-detecting equipment will help her find ghosts but won’t be as effective against Afarit.

“Got any idea where to look, Poppy?” she asks Poppy, whose head is currently sitting completely backwards on her shoulders. She doesn’t reply. She just stares. She doesn’t even look uncomfortable with her neck twisted up like that.

The cemetery is unexpectedly pleasant to stroll through – if you can forget about the fact that people’s friends and loved ones are buried here. Cobblestone walkways neatly separate the graves, and stone planters have been built next to the fancier graves, each with different types of flowers. In the spring, these flowers must pump some much-needed color into this gloomy place.

A soft thud brings Farah back to the present. She tenses up, trying to recall the direction the sound came from, when she hears another thud – followed by another two, all in quick succession. It’s enough for her to figure out the direction it’s coming from.

She darts through the graves, listening as the thuds get more and more desperate, like someone knocking on a door, begging to be let inside. It’s a sound that fills her with a sticky sense of unease. It doesn’t help at all that Farah has passed Poppy several times along the way – like she’s teleporting to remain in close proximity.

This could probably be the Ifrit. In fact, she’s almost sure of it, because what else could it be? Her hand hovers over her radio. If she calls Ava or Nat, she might be the reason they run all the way over to check on her, and she’s hesitant to do so when she isn’t even sure yet.

She sighs and switches her radio on. Better safe than sorry.

“Hey, guys. What should we do if one of us finds it?” she asks. She wonders if they can hear the rapid knocking. The radios should be sensitive enough to pick up on it, but if they hear it, nobody says anything.

“Don’t act alone,” Ava warns. “We regroup and plan.”

“Gotcha.”

“Farah, did you find anything?” The concern in Ava’s voice bleeds through Farah’s earpiece.

“Not yet. Heard a weird noise and going to check it out. I’ll keep you guys posted.”

Ava is silent for a moment before she says, “Very well. Please do.”

After switching her radio off, Farah grins at Poppy, who is now standing beside an unfinished grave. “What is it, girl?” she coos at the specter. “Did you find something?”

Poppy doesn’t say anything, but it seems she did, in fact, find something. It just may be the source of the knocking noise, which persists even now. The grave has not been filled in yet, so Farah is able to lean forward into the hole to inspect it.

Six feet in the ground, she finds a shiny black casket. The whole box vibrates with each knock. Whatever is in there must _really_ want to come out.

She looks back up at the gravestone. It’s a massive structure, made of polished stone. The top half of the stone is a statue resembling the woman carved into the side of the mausoleum, but larger and more lifelike. Her head is bowed in sadness, her hair drawn over her face like a curtain.

Trying to ignore the knocking, which has grown annoyingly loud at this point, she looks back down at the nameplate in the hopes that finding out who the grave belongs to would give her a clue as to how to proceed. She finds it disappointingly blank.

“Who are you?” she mumbles.

_BANG!_

She moves her head down so quick she gives herself whiplash, and when she does, she’s met, not with the smooth black exterior of the casket, but with its bright velvety interior. More than that, the casket is **empty**. The source of the knocking is nowhere in sight.

“Huh?” She narrows her eyes, as though squinting would make the culprit magically appear. But she gives up with a sigh and straightens her posture. “Guess there’s nothing there, Poppy…” Her voice trails off when she realizes Poppy is no longer standing where she last saw her.

Farah rolls her eyes. Well, it’s par for the course for Poppy to be annoyingly present and then disappear like she’d never been there in the first place. She must have just gotten bored.

Her eyes wander idly over the statue of the woman as she turns her radio on again. “False alarm, guys. I think it was a spirit messing with me.”

When Ava replies, she has a hard time masking her relief. It makes Farah smile – their fearless leader worries too much about her. “It’s almost time for us to regroup anyway. Once you’re done over there, come right back.”

“Okay, mom,” Farah replies.

She hears Ava growl in response.

Farah hums to herself, only too pleased to have gotten a rise out of the commanding agent. She turns on her heel to resume her solitary patrol.

A shockingly white face framed by soaking wet strawberry blonde locks stands in her way. Farah’s heart jumps into her throat and she manages by the skin of her teeth to stop herself from jumping backwards into the open grave.

“Poppy!” she scolds. “Don’t do that!”

Poppy doesn’t say anything, as Poppy does. She just stands there… menacingly.

Farah sighs and rolls her eyes. “Well, if you’re not going to get out of the way…”

She steps to the right with the intent to walk around her ghostly friend, but a hand snaps out, wrapping icy wet fingers around Farah’s elbow. Poppy’s eyes glare silently at Farah, who can’t even find the words to react. Fingers digging painfully into Farah’s skin, Poppy yanks her back in front of the grave.

“Hey!” Farah yelps. “What are you doing?” Poppy had never physically touched her before. It is a feeling that resembles spiders crawling up and down the skin of her arm. It feels like the tingling of her arm right before it falls asleep. The feeling spreads across her body, and she only just recognizes the feeling for what it is. Terror.

Poppy’s mouth begins to move as though she were speaking, but no words come out. She reaches out with her other hand and grabs Farah’s shoulder – the hand on Farah’s elbow moves to mirror it on the other shoulder. Poppy grips her with enough force to pierce skin.

“H-Hey! Stop it! You’re hurting me!” Farah’s hand paws at the radio, manically clicking the button and waiting for it to turn on. “Ava!” she pleads. “Ava, can you hear this? Please! Nat! Morgan!”

And just like Ava at Wythinghall Manor, Poppy pushes Farah by her shoulders, sending her plummeting six feet below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've missed writing cliffhangers ;) -- this is the first chapter which will be directly continued in the next.


	19. Wolf

Cemeteries are achingly miserable. Someone you love has died – someone with whom you’ve shared precious fragments of your life – entrusted them with carefully carved pieces of yourself. In a way, one would feel that they themselves have died in the process. And what then? You come to this desolate plot of land, designate a spot of that land, and bury them there in a lonely place that doesn’t deserve to have them – a place that won’t love them like you did?

Nat brushes her fingers over the top of a grave for one “Joseph Hart” – dead at the age of four. If such a sweet thing could comprehend the finality and meaning of death, he’d absolutely loathe to find out about his final resting place – and nearly one hundred years after Joseph’s death, it’s unlikely anyone visits this grave at all.

She kneels and places a violet on top of the mound, which has blended into the dirt around it over time. A set of small fingers wrap around the stem of the violet as Joseph, in his white nightgown, brings the flower to his nose. His thin lips tilt up in a shy smile.

“Hello, rabbit.” Nat extends her arm, fingers barely skating across the translucent skin of the boy’s cheek. “How are you today?”

His cheek meets his shoulder as he shrugs bashfully at the attention Nat is giving him.

“It must be lonely here in this graveyard.” She smiles gently at him.

The apparition nods sadly.

“Are your mummy or daddy here with you?”

Joseph slumps his shoulders and shakes his head.

Nat’s face sinks. “Oh, you poor thing.” She lifts her hand to move a strand of his dark hair out of his eyes. “Are there any adults here that you can trust? A friend?”

The boy’s eyes light up and he nods, shuffling to his feet, the violet still in his hand. With his other hand, he reaches for Nat’s hand. Her heart swells with delight as she reaches down to close her fingers around his. She is quite a bit taller than him, so she has to lean down a bit, but she does not give any indication of her discomfort, merely engaging in cheerful conversation with the boy as he walks her along the cobblestone path.

They walk at a leisurely pace, hand in hand, until they come upon an old well. The top has been securely closed off and vines have grown around the mossy bricks. Atop the well, sitting with his legs crossed over one another, is a man – _no_ , hardly a man. He’s a boy. He can’t be older than 17 years old. And well, he can’t be a living boy either. On the side of his head, just shy of his left temple, is a dent left by what must have been an axe or similarly shaped weapon.

The boy on top of the well narrows his eyes at Nat as she approaches, but the intense stare softens when his gaze drifts below to Joseph.

Nat gently relinquishes Joseph’s hand and straightens up, smoothing down her clothes as she does. “You must be Joseph’s friend. My name is Natalie – but you can call me Nat.” She holds out her hand for him to shake.

The boy looks up at her through round, protruding eyes, his full lips pressed in a frown. He doesn’t budge an inch, electing to stare at Nat’s hand as though it were a foreign object.

In response, Nat withdraws her hand and nods in understanding. “That’s alright. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy purses his lips thoughtfully, looking down at Joseph, who has gone on to lean against Nat’s leg, and then looking back up at Nat. “It’s Mac,” he says in a voice that’s more solid than she’d expected. “You’re not like us.”

Nat smiles wryly. “I’m more like you than you might think, Mac.”

Mac’s hard gaze melts and he crosses his arms over himself defensively. “What do you want, Nat.”

“I want you to help me stop a very bad spirit from hurting you and your friends here in this cemetery,” she says, walking up to the well and taking a seat beside him. She leans down and lifts Joseph into her lap, fingers idly coming through his messy curls. The child leans into her shoulder.

“Bad spirit?” Mac mumbles, his gaze drifting across the expansive graveyard. “You mean the one Uncle Zo was talking about?”

“Uncle Zo?”

He lifts his knees up to his chin and looks directly at Nat. “Uncle Zo got here a little while ago, but he’s not bad. He says he’s protecting us from what’s worse.”

“And what’s worse?” Nat asks, unconsciously tightening her grip on Joseph protectively.

“The darkness,” Mac replies simply, as if she should already know what that is. “It follows the living around, and they don’t even know it. And then it leaks onto the dead and it makes us angry. It makes us want to hurt.”

She swallows the lump that’s formed in her throat. “Is it… Is it following me, too?”

Mac frowns. “That depends. Are you alive or not?”

As Nat looks into his big black eyes, she realizes, she doesn’t even know the answer to that question.

***

Morgan fiddles with the ends of her scarf as she leans against the back of a large cross-shaped tombstone. There is a small man-made pond in her quadrant of the cemetery, fenced in by bricks and extending all the way to the far corner of the cemetery. Lily pads float across the surface, swaying with the gentle oscillation of the water in the autumn breeze.

She sucks in a lungful of fresh air through her nose, watching the leaves on the oak tree beside her shudder and drop onto the carpet of red, yellow, and brown leaves covering the dirt. It’s pretty cold, but being surrounded by the dead is far more peaceful than being surrounded by the living; it’s a sensation that Morgan can’t help but revel in.

She’d gone around the area twice but had not seen a single thing – not even a stray spirit. She finds that spirits tend to rarely appear to her, relative to the rest of her team. It’s not something she particularly envies, seeing as whenever they appear, it usually means trouble; she’s seen their commander get her ass kicked by spirits enough times to know that.

Her ears perk up when she hears the sound of foliage rustling behind her – the tell-tale sound of footsteps approaching. By the sound, it’s likely not a member of Unit Bravo; it’s more like the slow padding of an animal across the grass. She tilts her head ever so slightly to glance at the creature from the corner of her eye.

The creature is large, with fur in shades of grey that blend into the monochrome landscape around it. It resembles a grey **wolf** , with piercing eyes that watch her cautiously. Morgan doesn’t sense hostility from the creature, so she takes her time facing it.

“Didn’t think **wolves** were native to these parts,” she remarks, meeting its intense stare with one of her own.

It takes a few more steps towards her, until the distance between them is just a couple of feet. before sitting on its hind legs. _“I wouldn’t know. You chose this form, not me.”_ Its voice as it runs through her head is almost indistinguishable from her own thoughts, like memories flashing in her mind’s eye.

She frowns at the insinuation that this creature’s form _says_ anything at all about her. “You got a name, or do I just call you Ifrit?”

Its snout raises in what almost resembles an amused smirk. _“I see the witch told you about me.”_

Morgan pulls a cigarette out of her pocket and lights it. She waits for the nicotine to numb her senses before continuing. “She told us you were sending the dead to attack the living.” She blows smoke out through her lips as she speaks. “Or something like that…”

The Ifrit lets out a bark of laughter. _“Quite the imagination on that one. Well, to answer your first question, I am Zo.”_

“Morgan,” she says, nodding in acknowledgement.

_“Well met, Morgan. To answer your second question, I do not care to attack the living. I am more concerned with that which has attached itself to this town.”_

“And what’s that?”

 _“A dark shadow. It is still weak now, but it will attempt to consume the sadness and misery in this place, and it will continue to eat until it is satisfied.”_ Zo trots over to her until he is circling the cross, staring up at her. _“And you and your friends have lured it to a veritable feast.”_

Morgan scoffs, putting her cigarette back to her lips. “The hell are you talking about? We just got here.”

Zo’s icy blue eyes narrow and he growls audibly. _“I was never a threat to the humans of this town. Your agency seeks to destroy that which it does not understand, all while ignoring the rot in its own foundations.”_

She crosses her arms, looking down at him from below her lashes. “How do we stop it?”

He turns his head away from her. _“You leave, and you never return. It will follow you.”_ He then leaps off, sprinting away from her on all fours, his image melting into the fog until it is impossible to tell where he’d gone.

Morgan sighs shifting her weight as she watches the empty space where the Ifrit once was. “You could have been more specific!” she yells as if that would make him come back.

Nonetheless, Ava will want to hear of this.

***

The aviator sunglasses come off once the clouds begin to cover the sun. Ava places them in the pocket of her coat as she takes slow deliberate steps along the cobblestone. She scans the area keenly, observing each leaf as it drops and each crow as it perches atop the old stones.

This part of the cemetery houses some of the older graves – many of the stones are crumbled and illegible. It is regrettable that as the stones crumble, the people they had once belonged to fade into endless oblivion.

She walks past a woman with hunched shoulders who looks far more like a washed-out photograph than a person – like someone had fiercely scrubbed away the detail, leaving only her outline. She turns her head to follow Ava as marches past. She lets out a wail so muffled it sounds more like someone’s vague recollection of a wail.

Ava soon finds she’s surrounded by spirits who want only to be seen and heard – but with no reasonable way to express themselves, their cries and jittery movements serve only to unnerve. For all the similarities spirits and vampires share, Ava is grateful this miserable evanescence is not one of them. She likes to believe that she’s still every bit herself that she had been 900 years ago as a human… _No_ , she is definitely more herself than she’d been as a human – body and mind.

As the breeze stirs the loose strands of her hair, she smells the ocean again – sweet and nostalgic. She shuts her eyes to savor the scent, and she’s there again. Waves crashing along the rocks. A face she can’t quite see. That eerie voice begging her to jump.

Ava’s eyes snap open, her heart drumming in her chest. She slouches like a puppet with its strings cut, her body shaking uncontrollably.

_No. Not now. Not here._

She’s still in the cemetery – still surrounded by grey spirits blending into their grey background. And still she hears the song in her head. Still she hears the wind humming. Still she hears the waves crash. Her breathing is shallow as she fights the pull of her body.

It’s so vivid – so much more vivid than it’s been in a while. She hears a hiccup and a sob. A crack runs down her heart like it had been struck by lightning. She cannot help but glance at the cracked and crumbled headstones as she clutches her chest. Instinctively, she runs a hand down her face to make sure she’s still all there.

“Ava.” Her earpiece crackles to life and all the air rushes back into her lungs. It’s Morgan. “The Ifrit came to me, and I think you’ll want to hear what it had to say.”

***

Unit Bravo gathers again at noon as agreed, with the notable exception of Farah.

There is enough tension in Ava’s body to topple a skyscraper. She turns her radio on snaps into it, “Farah! Answer me! Where are you?”

And it doesn’t end with Ava. There is certainly tension to go around. Nat has been pacing in a large circle around their meeting point, her eyes scanning the distance in every direction. Each of them has gone out of this circle to search for Farah around the vastness of the cemetery, but none as much as Morgan. She has burned through an entire pack of cigarettes running to Farah’s quadrant, confirming that she is not there, and running back; she’s already done so countless times in the span of the hour Farah has been missing.

Farah could sometimes forget herself, but she’d never be so irresponsible that she’d lose her radio or ignore her teammates. It is a thought that covers the team in thick smog of unease, and as they crash against the walls of this bubble they’re in, they’re bombarded by images of what could have happened to their youngest teammate, and they’re afraid.

Morgan scowls, kicking the dirt. “We should go out and look –”

“Where?” Ava interrupts her. “Where do we look?” Her voice loses its sharp edge when she adds. “Where _else_ do we look?”

It’s Nat’s voice that interrupts her hopelessness as she utters the words that they’ve all been desperate to hear.

“Farah? Is that you?”

The face they all turn to is definitely Farah’s, but she’s not quite all there. She stands at a distance, perfectly upright, and still as a statue, save for her curls which flutter in the wind. On her face is an expression none of them have ever seen on her – apathy.

Ava is on her in a flash, her hands moving across Farah’s shoulders and arms, almost as though she were feeling her to make sure she’s still corporeal – still feels warm to the touch – alive. As she does, Farah’s lips begin to move.

And this time, in Farah’s voice, she hears that incessant melody. Farah’s hands shoot up to Ava’s throat and squeeze tight enough that, had Ava been human, the force would have snapped her neck. The last thing Ava hears as she sinks into the cold, wet darkness is the rushing of the waves as they crash over her body.


	20. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a doozy to write -- which is uh why it's so late.
> 
> Warnings  
> => Pretty fucking depressing  
> => Descriptions of body horror

Ava can feel an entire ocean inside of her, filling her lungs to bursting. All is quiet, but the beat of her heart screaming in her chest. She feels as though she were being pulled deeper into the water by an anchor tied to her neck. As she struggles to open her eyelids, all she sees is the striking aquamarine of the water around her, dull and lightless. She searches as though something on the ocean floor could save her from this watery grave.

The sultry song of the ocean creeps into her mind again. Like a lullaby it sinks into her muscles, washing the tension away with the tenderness of one who loves her. Her body begs to succumb, but her mind remains stubbornly sharp. Eyes like cut emeralds strain against the icy waters as her limbs begin to shake in fatigue.

Hazel eyes snap open before her, and just out of her reach is a face and she can see it as clear as she’s ever seen one: the roundness of her eyes, the curve of her nose, the redness of her lips – strawberry curls dancing in front of her, floating on the water, buried in the sand. But those eyes stare right through Ava as though they cannot even see her.

Ava’s soul drowns in her chest, clawing at her skin, begging to be let out. Those eyes continue to stare up and the song continues to bounce off those lips and into Ava’s consciousness as her body sinks deeper and closer to the woman lying in the sand.

And Ava is hit with a powerful, overwhelming scent – clean ocean breeze and sweet vanilla – that triggers the primal hunger simmering at the bottom of her gut. She tries to focus on the pale hand reaching out for her, and her skin tingles as her fingers close around it.

All at once, slender arms wrap her in a scalding embrace. The song is silenced and the chill of the deep melts away as she lies on the shore, looking up into those hazel eyes, so bright they look molten in the sunlight. Ava cannot feel her arms and legs as her head is tilted upwards and the siren leans down, capturing Ava’s lips with her own, breathing life into her dying body.

Water pours out of Ava’s lungs, through her mouth. The soft curls brush against her cheek as a voice whispers in her ear, “Don’t worry… Everything will be alright.” Her heart slams into the ground like an anvil, and each word is a needle sinking into her neck, chest, arms, legs… The glare of the sun against her eyes is agony – or is that the saltwater…

It takes some time for Ava’s voice to climb back up her stinging throat. “I don’t –” she cries out –

– into the darkness of her facility bedroom.

Ava’s sheets are damp with what must be sweat; her unkempt golden hair is clinging to her cheeks. She lifts her hands up, observing as they tremble before her.

The door clicks open softly, and Nat enters, her presence muffling the voices screaming at Ava from the void. Cupped between Nat’s palms is one of her favored mugs; the scent of chamomile wafts from it, soothing the sting of the ocean water in Ava’s nostrils.

When Nat’s eyes come upon Ava, she hurries her steps and sits at the edge of her bed. A delicate finger comes up to tuck a strand of wet hair behind Ava’s ear. “You’re shaking,” Nat remarks, her voice is tender against Ava’s sensitive hearing. “They’re getting worse.”

Ava inhales deeply through her nose, letting the aroma of the chamomile rest within her weary bones. And then she exhales, releasing the tension in her jaw and shoulders. Her lips tilt up in gratitude as she takes the mug from Nat’s hands. Her skin is freezing against the warm ceramic.

Nat lifts up from the bed and moves to the armoire, picking up a hairbrush and returning to her spot by Ava’s side. With the patience of an artist, she painstakingly combs through the knots in Ava’s hair. “You need to tell someone about these dreams, Ava,” Nat scolds gently.

“I’ve told _you_ ,” Ava mumbles, sipping her tea.

“Someone _aside_ from me – someone who can actually help you make sense of this!” Nat tries to mask the frustration in her voice; she knows that there are few arguments with Ava that she can actually win. When Ava does not reply, she knows the discussion is over.

She carefully pins Ava’s hair up into her signature tight bun, her hand coming to rest on her friend’s shoulder when she’s done.

“We’ll be visiting Wayhaven again today on assignment,” she says, trying to trudge through the heavy atmosphere. “Our contact is a supernatural – should be a nice change of pace for you.”

Ava’s eyes unconsciously linger on the hand on her shoulder as she places her mug on the bedside table. “I could have done my hair up myself.”

Nat’s hand slips off her friend’s shoulder. She gets to her feet, placing the hairbrush back where she’d found it.

“Wait.” Ava’s words cause Nat to freeze in place. “Why are you the one briefing me?”

With her back to Ava, Nat sighs. “You missed the meeting this morning. It’s unlike you to oversleep, old friend.” Her voice is surprisingly fragile. She reaches for the phone on Ava’s dresser. Upon inspection, it appears the battery is dry – not exactly typical of the commanding agent.

The tingling sensation begins to ease in Ava’s limbs as her thoughts begins to converge on the task ahead. The blood begins to circulate through her veins and arteries again and the fog between her ears dissipates, leaving nothing but moist dew clinging to the walls of her mind.

“Thank you, Nat,” she finally says.

Nat is silent as she arranges the bottles and trinkets on the armoire. “Please, Ava. Be careful today.”

***

“Oh, when they said you’d be tall, I didn’t realize they meant _‘tall’_ tall!”

Maggie Flowers is the name of the woman they are to meet. She’s like a warm gust of wind in spring, pulling everything in her path into her spiraling storm. She is inexperienced and unfocused, fluttering from one topic to the next like a honeybee.

She whisks them to the Wayhaven Cemetery, where they are greeted by sorrowful tree branches, their leaves raining onto the sidewalk. Maggie passes through the gate first, leaving Rebecca and Unit Bravo to follow after her. Against the grey backdrop of the cemetery, she looks the part of the hapless damsel, a seamless element of the gloomy landscape.

And Ava cannot shake the feeling she’d seen this before – the dancing of Maggie’s spiderwebbed skirt in the wind as she twirls with about half the grace of a ballerina. She unlocks the gates to the cemetery and passes through as a child hopping past the ticket booth of a carnival.

Ava’s fist clenches tightly around the cool iron bars of the gate as she feels a wave of nausea pass over her. She breathes in deeply, but as her lungs fill with salty ocean air, the ache in her stomach grows only more severe. Her grip on the fence tightens until she feels the metal crack beneath her fingers. When she releases her hold, her hand comes off covered in damp paint chips and rust.

“Everyone is already inside. Are you alright? Ava?”

As Ava dusts her hands off, she glances up at Nat. “I’m fine. I was…” She sighs, having a hard time coming up with a reason for her actions that wouldn’t fill Nat with either suspicion or worry. “Don’t worry about it,” she manages to say unconvincingly. She realizes that her words have likely succeeded in yielding the opposite of the desired effect. Nat doesn’t push the subject, much to Ava’s relief, as the two of them walk side-by-side to the old willow tree.

When Ava steps into the circle around Maggie, her eyes drift off to the side where she spots the phantom from Wythinghall manor, the one that had pushed her off the railing. It glares at her for less than a second before disappearing. She sighs heavily; whether this spirit has anything to do with the siren song she hears in her dreams, she does not know. It kills her to have denied seeing the spirit, lying right to Farah’s face.

As Maggie speaks to them, Ava’s gaze idly wanders around the cemetery, passing along the trees, the headstones, the mossy cobblestone… She gets the sense that the air around her is alive and watching her closely, and she wonders if it knows that they’ve performed this waltz before.

Unit Bravo splits the graveyard into quadrants: one for each agent. Upon giving her team their orders, Ava practically glides across the grass to her quadrant – to the crumbling graves and the crumbling ghosts, their physical forms lost to time.

The Ifrit isn’t here. She’s sure of it.

She paces along the stones, visually tracing the old stone statues, the shadows spilling from the cracks. She drags her fingers along the walls of a sturdy old mausoleum building, likely unopened for decades – perhaps more, judging by the flora blooming from every untouched crevice. The building is surrounded by imposing stone walls with lush ivy draped across them.

More than that, Ava hears a heartbeat – a human heartbeat. She hears fabric sliding against the stone. And she hears a breathy sob.

In a broken voice, someone says, “I wish you were here…”

Ava takes a hurried step away from the wall, guilt wrapping tightly around her chest. She feels like she’s intruding upon something private – something that doesn’t belong to her. Yet there is a certain quality to that voice that draws her in. She holds her breath, eyes fixed on bricks ahead of her.

“No, of course, I haven’t told her… And it’s not like she’d care…”

A firm touch pulls Ava back to the present. Green eyes meet hazel. A man with a head of black curls, deep brown skin and freckles observes her. His face seems to flicker like an old film. “Don’t you have other things to do than eavesdrop, Agent?” His voice is gravelly and warm – familiar.

Ava stares at him incredulously, shrugging his hand off her shoulder and walking away with purpose. Slowing her gait slightly as she nears the point where the voice sits at the very edge of her hearing, threatening to fade completely.

She shakes her head of those thoughts. There’s nothing special about a mourner in a graveyard – nothing so unusual in coming upon one by chance. And there is nothing that distinguishes this one from any others.

As she makes her way back to the meeting spot, she finds Farah standing among the group, her head pointed downwards so that her hair covers her face. Her beanie is conspicuously missing. And yet, the sight of her there fills Ava with a sense of relief.

She places her hand on Farah’s arm as she addresses the team. “Morgan, you said you spoke with the Ifrit?”

The skin of Ava’s palm begins to burn before Morgan can say anything. She snatches it back from Farah’s shoulder, cradling it against her chest as she directs a confused and accusatory look in Farah’s direction.

Farah’s lips begin to move. She lifts her gaze to Ava. Her hands are at Ava’s throat again, squeezing.

The water rushes over her again, digging itself into her lungs, clinging to every coherent thought in her head, spilling out of her mouth even as she opens it to scream.

“Farah!” she yelps into the darkness of her facility bedroom.

The soft click of the door. The sound of Nat’s boots as she steps in, careful not to be too abrasive or too loud. The scent of the warm chamomile tea fills the room with warmth – with safety.

Ava raises her quivering hands before burying her head into them.

“You’re shaking. They’re getting worse…”

Ava looks up at Nat curiously. “Haven’t we… done this before?”

Nat’s brow creases in concern. “Have we?”

***

The fading silhouette of a woman groans at Ava, her spectral body languidly swaying as though affected by the cool breeze. She reaches out, attempts to move in her own way, but she cannot, tethered like a wild animal to the slab of stone that once read her name. Her head turns to the stone, and Ava can almost sense a sorrowful air to those movements.

Ava’s gaze travels across the path to the tall cemetery fence at the end. With its back against the wall is her own personal tether – arm outstretched. She looks away.

“Where am I supposed to go?” She directs her question to the gray sky.

She feels dampness on her cheek. Another droplet against her tight fist. And another into her hair. And when she looks down, the ground is covered in droplets. Is this the answer? What does this even mean?

She nearly loses her balance as the scent of the ocean overtakes her again. She clutches her stomach, leaning against the ivy-covered stone wall to keep herself upright. The coolness of the damp stone against her forehead and the scent of the ivy keeps her feet firmly on the ground as she gasps to keep the air in her lungs from being replaced by saltwater.

Instinctively, her fingers go up to her radio and she says, “Farah? Are you there?”

Silence. The sinking of her heart is not a new feeling. She’s felt her heart sink for Farah before.

“Farah, please pick up,” she says more firmly – impossible to ignore, but she is met with nothing.

Farah. She needs to find Farah.

She straightens her spine, casting one last glance at the siren still singing at her from a distance, before turning her back to it completely. She drags herself away with purpose, still feeling the pull of the ghostly fingers, the tether growing so taut that the thread is cutting into her skin.

Once she’s reached Farah’s quadrant, she doesn’t even know where to start looking. She knows that wherever Farah is, her ghostly companion, the one Farah has affectionately called “Poppy”, should be close behind.

The chill of the wind penetrates the warmth of Ava’s peacoat, raising the hair on her arms. The frown on her lips does not budge as she surveys the area. Any detail could help her in locating Farah.

She passes by large mausoleum. A melancholy woman alone in a flower garden is depicted along the side of the building, carved into the stone. Vines have grown in a tangled border around it to create a natural frame for the artwork – likely a deliberate effort, considering this quadrant of the cemetery is rather well-maintained compared to the one Ava had assigned herself.

Following the path, she feels her steps grow heavier. She drags her legs along, lugging unseen anchors behind her, still aware of the tether that threatens to tear her in half. But she will find Farah, even if she’s torn asunder, leaving viscera behind her like a breadcrumb trail.

She spots Poppy standing atop a recently filled in grave. The glare directed at Ava is full of malice. The vampire’s hand shoots to her belt to secure her taser should she need it.

The gravestone is large and beautiful. The top half is a statue of a woman kneeling on the ground, her gaze downcast and her face hidden by her hair. The bottom half bears a beautiful plaque. Ava risks approaching Poppy to read the name on the plaque.

_Here lies Ava du Mortain – Solus in Tenebris_

Ava’s knees buckle, and it’s all she can do to keep herself standing upright. She takes a long step backwards, feeling something solid crash into her back.

She turns around to see Farah’s small frame leaning into her – amber eyes half-shut in fatigue. Her fingers hesitantly clutch the lapels of Ava’s peacoat. She turns her head up to speak.

No sooner do Farah’s lips open than Ava feels two strong, damp hands grip the sides of her head –

_SNAP!_

Icy green eyes snap open and she’s staring into the darkness of her bedroom again.

The door clicks. Nat arrives with her chamomile tea.

“You’re shaking. They’re getting worse…”

Ava lets out a shuddering sigh.

***

This time, Ava tells her team to search the cemetery in two’s; it’s the only way she can keep an eye on Farah.

“Oh, you just wanted to spend more time with me, didn’t you, fearless leader?” Farah teases. Ava can’t find it in her be as amused as her teammate.

She watches Farah leisurely walk over to the mausoleum, dragging the tips of her fingers along the intricate carving on the wall, seeing it as though it were the first time. But it isn’t the first time. Not really. She watches Farah move in a wide circle as though avoiding an object in her way.

Ava’s movements have grown sluggish, like she hasn’t slept in days. She only hopes she can find her way out of this maze she’s in because she’s sick of running in circles like a dog chasing his tail. Farah is always the last thing she sees before she wakes up from one nightmare into the next. If she isn’t the key, then Ava truly is at a loss.

“Hey, Ava, do you hear that?” Farah mumbles, looking curiously up at her leader.

Said leader strains her hearing, but all she manages to hear is the sound of a crow landing on a nearby tree. “What is it you hear?”

Farah purses her lips. “Like… a knocking noise. I think.” She turns her head in a distant direction. That Ava cannot hear what she hears is concerning. Furthermore, that Ava cannot see Poppy while Farah clearly can is also concerning.

“Let’s stay together, Farah,” Ava warns.

Farah nods, but her mind seems to have drifted elsewhere. She darts off to seek the source of the knocking sound.

Ava groans, running after her. Farah is proving hard to keep up with, but Ava cannot lose sight of her, not even for a moment. She can’t afford to.

The wind burns her eyes as she runs, and darkness blurs the edges of her vision. She tries to keep her sights focused on Farah, even as the graveyard in front of her shifts and melts into the cliff from her dreams. She can feel the rose thorns as they prick her skin. She can hear the song ever more desperate – ever more gut-wrenching.

This time, Farah is the lone figure at the edge of the cliff.

“H-Hey! Stop it! You’re hurting me!” she cries out. She’s still her. Still Farah. But her voice is laced with **fear**.

“Farah!” Ava hollers.

Upon noticing Ava, Farah whines in a tone so desolate it sends acid creeping down the commanding agent’s spine. “Ava! Help me! Please! She won’t let go!”

Ava closes the distance between them in an instant. Her hand wraps around Farah’s wrist, and in doing so, Poppy appears clearly before her as she’d done before at Wythinghall Manor. Her pure white face twisted, not in pain, but in rage.

“Farah, go call for the others,” Ava orders, her voice steady in spite of the mounting uncertainty plaguing her heart.

“But –”

“Go!”

Poppy’s pale visage begins to melt before Ava’s eyes. The skin of her head begins to bubble and drip grotesquely off her in large globs. And as the creature sheds itself of Poppy’s skin, its true form emerges – an inky black smog in the vague shape of a person.

Ava whips her taser out, pressing it into the side of the shade and activating it. She hears the device make a loud popping noise before the weapon erupts into flames in the palm of her hand. Immediately, she lets the device drop to the ground.

She takes a step back, observing the creature. It observes her back through blank white eyes.

Smoky tendrils wrap themselves around her neck as she is lifted into the air. Its smoky figure changes shape to a thick plume that plunges itself into Ava’s face, forcing itself into every orifice. The taste of it on her tongue is enough to make her gag.

The pain of it is excruciating, however. She feels her chest expand to accommodate the intrusion. She feels it cling to her bone and muscle, scraping against them as it makes itself comfortable. She feels the agony in her head where it tries to push Ava and all that she is out and make a new home for its own thoughts. She feels it even as she struggles to maintain control over her body. Even as the darkness takes over every single sense. Even as the siren song fades – only to be replaced by static.

***

“Hurry!”

“I’m going as fast as I can!” Morgan growls.

“There she is!” Nat exclaims.

Three members of Unit Bravo huddle around an unfinished grave. Six feet below, lying on the dirt, is their commander – breathing, but unresponsive.

Farah drops to her knees. “Oh, no…” Her voice quivers, barely loud enough for Morgan and Nat to hear it. “This is all my fault.” She digs her hands into the dirt and leans over the opening of the ditch. “Ava, I’m so, so sorry…”

But if Ava can hear the regret in Farah’s words, there’s not a single indication. Her eyes remain shut.


	21. Trust

Morgan has never wanted a smoke more than she does now, standing with her back against the glass in the patient room, watching Ava’s chest go up and down – Farah, sitting with her head resting against the bed, bleeding her eyes dry watching Ava’s hands just in case they twitch and they miss it.

Wherever Nat is, it’s not here. She’d spent the first few days watching over her old friend vigilantly, but standing around and doing nothing has never solved anything. So, wherever Nat is, she’s off putting her mind to the problem, digging until her shovel hand gets sore, and trying not to consider the possibility that there may not be anything to find at the bottom.

And Morgan? Well, she’s been listening to Rebecca argue with Director Chance on the phone for the past week. Rebecca has been telling anyone who will listen about how it is an outrage that Ava is being tended to in the SPECTRE facility – threatening to get Chance kicked from her position – outright begging for Ava to be sent to any other medical unit. Rebecca is terrified. And why wouldn’t she be?

They’re probably going to be assigned a replacement for Ava – at least until she can wake up. It’s been a week and Ava is still comatose. There is nothing wrong with her physically. Any injuries she may have sustained while fighting the shade have long since healed. Morgan can hear Ava’s heart as it beats in that stubborn chest of hers; it’s slow, steady, and familiar.

A soft knock sounds at door. Morgan’s gaze shifts to the side as Trigger enters the room. She looks so much more reserved, her dark braids tied in a low ponytail, wearing an oversized navy sweater. She nods to Morgan before making her way to Farah’s hunched form, placing a hand against her back. Farah does not acknowledge it, still tracing circles with her fingers on the sheets.

“Morgan?” Trigger turns her head to look at the vampire. “Can I speak with you outside?”

Morgan’s eyes dart downwards for less than a second before she nods. She pushes herself off the wall and moves outside of the room with Trigger at her tail. She makes sure to shut the door behind her, leaving Farah alone.

Trigger’s gaze lingers on the closed door, solemnity clinging to her features. She gently takes Morgan’s wrist, pulling her a safe distance from the room before she speaks, her voice exhausted.

“We’ve discussed this with Nat already, but we thought you should know…” She sighs wearily, and Morgan notices the way her eyes droop. “We think Ava’s still battling the shade – in her mind.”

“Like Director Aryan,” Morgan remarks flatly, pointing a glare at the other woman. She doesn’t need a reminder of how it ended with the old director. The thought of it still sends waves of tension through her body.

“Precisely like that.” Trigger reaches back to rub the back of her neck. “You should know that the um… standard procedure for this, it’s…”

“Exactly what Chance did to the director?” Morgan snarls. “Because that shit’s not gonna fly with us.”

Trigger’s eyes widen. “I wasn’t suggesting it. I was just explaining that the case with Director Aryan – he was only left on life support for that long because of his status within the Agency. And I know as a vampire, Ava has a better chance, but I still don’t know how long the Agency is going to want to keep her on life support.” Before Morgan can snap at her again, she holds her hands out and stammers, “And it’s not my decision to make! It’s not yours! It’s not even Rebecca’s! I wish I could have given you better news, but we still don’t know how to bring people out of this state.”

Morgan raises a hand up to rub her temples. Of course, they don’t know what to do. Fucking typical. If this is the sum of all SPECTRE knowledge, then Nat probably isn’t having much luck either. Trigger’s heart skips a beat. “What else do you know?” Morgan asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

Trigger’s lips tighten into a frown. “All I know is that your commanding agent must have one hell of a mind if she’s still alive right now. When a shade takes over a person completely, whoever they were before is dead. We have until she loses the fight with the shade to do the impossible and bring her back.” Her eyes soften as they look into Morgan’s grey ones. “And believe me Morgan, nobody can fight forever; not even Ava.”

Morgan doesn’t flinch under her gaze. “You don’t know Ava,” she challenges.

Trigger does not react to her words, simply lowering her gaze and taking a long step backwards. “Rhode’s been helping Nat with her research. I hope they figure it out, Morgan. I really do.” She turns on her heel and walks away, leaving Morgan alone in the hall to watch her disappear around a corner.

She shifts her gaze to Rebecca who’s been staring intently at her telephone screen, likely priming for another verbal assault on Chance. Her suit is pressed and not a single dark brown hair is out of place on her head, and yet her body looks completely deflated.

As though she could sense Morgan’s attention, Rebecca looks up. “Morgan, they want me to send you out again.”

Morgan moves to close the distance between them until she is hovering over her boss. “Us?”

“Unit Bravo,” she says bitterly. “The higher ups are not happy with you sitting around. They’ve called to tell me that we are to meet the substitute agent this evening.”

Morgan frowns. She understands it’s beyond Rebecca’s control – and far be it for Morgan to question the Agency in these things. They usually know best. “I’ll tell Farah to get some sleep.”

Rebecca’s hand comes to rest on Morgan’s arm. “Thank you, Morgan.” And it’s clear she’s thanking her for more than just her handling of Unit Bravo’s youngest member.

***

Morgan glares across the darkened sales floor of the old antique shop into the dark black eyes of Agent Falasteen. When Rebecca had said they’d found a substitute, she hadn’t said the substitute would be a human – or a member of Unit Epsilon. If Ava were conscious, she’d grit her teeth so hard they’d shatter and fall out of her head.

Falasteen is a quiet addition, though – she allows Nat to take the lead as second in command to Ava, and she doesn’t try to waste their time sympathizing with them or voicing useless platitudes. Morgan already knows that to Unit Epsilon, Ava is as good as dead, but at least this one doesn’t keep saying it with her eyes whenever she thinks Unit Bravo aren’t looking. She stays committed to the mission through and through; if nothing else, that’s one thing she shares with Ava.

Farah’s face is unnervingly a mirror of Morgan’s face. Were it not for the fact that each member of Unit Bravo had been thoroughly examined by the SPECTRE medical staff, one would have thought that a shade had entered Farah’s psyche as well.

“Farah and I will remain on this floor,” Nat says, gesturing to the display cases around them. “We will be searching for the cursed artefact among the items here. Morgan – you and Falasteen check the storage below, alright?”

Morgan simply shrugs and nods to Falasteen. The last time they’d worked together, the two of them had been assigned the second floor of Wythinghall Manor. There wasn’t much talking between them and, judging how she scarcely even spares Morgan a glance as she tentatively descends the stairs, it seems today’s mission won’t be much different. It’s not entirely unwelcome; Morgan hates a chatty partner.

The storage level of the shop is a complete mess. Nat would weep if she had to bear witness to the shattered antiques littering the floor, so perhaps it’s for the best that she’s on the upper level with Farah. Most of the tall storage shelves are still upright, but quite a few of them have toppled into each other, leaning like dominos against the wall.

Falasteen pulls her EMF detector out and nods at Morgan. “Mind if we split up a bit? We can cover more ground that way.”

Morgan lets out a short exhale. “Fine by me.”

And that’s that.

She splits off from Falasteen, taking the right side of the room. She feels more at ease on her own anyway. Better that she can’t hear Falasteen’s heart beating in her chest if she can help it. Humans are so loud; it’s disgusting. It’s not something they can help, but that doesn’t mean Morgan has to put up with it.

Morgan manages to traverse through her side of the room without her EMF detector going off. As she does, however, she comes upon a door, hidden behind one of the fallen shelves. Rolling her eyes in annoyance, she gives the shelf one sturdy push, knocking it back in the opposite direction; it crashes into the shelf behind it, knocking it into the one behind that, and so on until they’ve been knocked against the opposite wall with a righteous bang.

Her earpiece comes to life and she hears Falasteen grumble. “You could warn me next time you do that.”

Morgan smirks. “Whoops.” She thinks she hears Falasteen chuckle from the other side of the room.

“What was _that_?” Farah’s voice chirps through the earpiece.

“Don’t worry about it,” is all Morgan offers her. Farah makes a dissatisfied noise but does not attempt to pry any further into the matter.

The now uncovered door is unremarkable. The bottom corners are splintered and worn, and the white paint has faded from the wood. The brass doorhandle is dull and covered in scratches. An unidentified dark green stain has covered the top half of the door, making it just about one of the least inviting doors Morgan has ever seen.

She groans. In lieu of touching the gross handle with her hands, she raises a leg and slams her boot into it, nearly knocking it off its hinges.

“Who needs doorhandles,” she mumbles as she takes her first steps into the new room. Just as she does so, her EMF meter begins to go off.

“Morgan?” Nat’s voice calls out to her.

“Huh?” Morgan gazes ahead into what looks like the sales floor above. “How are you –”

Nat shakes her head in confusion. “Farah and I were trying to get this door open. How did you get here?”

Morgan swiftly turns her head to look through the door, but she finds only an old, dusty brick wall behind her. “What the hell?”

Farah cocks her head. “You’re not secretly a ghost, are you? Because you know if you’re a ghost, legally you have to tell us.”

Nat frowns. “Isn’t that the rule for police?”

“Nope. Pretty sure it applies to ghosts, too.”

“I’m not a ghost,” Morgan says monotonously.

A smile spreads across Farah’s face, and she looks like her normal self again. “That’s exactly what a ghost _would_ say.”

“Can we all just focus on finding the artefact?”

At the sound of that voice, Morgan’s heart stops completely. She freezes, her limbs unable to resume function until it sees the owner.

Ava steps out of the manager’s office, located behind the cash register. Her eyebrow is quirked in annoyance. “Is everything alright Morgan?”

Just then, she remembers to breathe again, feeling returning to her body. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

Ava’s eyes continue to pin her in place, however. “Good. Did you find anything in storage?”

Morgan’s legs draw her closer. “Uh, not really. It was just some broken shit. Nothing really important.” She inspects Ava from beneath dark lashes. Grey eyes lock onto icy blue ones.

She sighs and tears her gaze away.

“Morgan?” Nat questions. “What’s wrong?”

“Yeah, you’re acting weird,” Farah remarks. “Are you scared?”

This gets a laugh out of Morgan. “Oh, fuck no.” She tears her taser off her belt and presses it into Ava’s side, causing those cerulean eyes to roll into the back of her head as she drops motionless to the ground.

“Morgan. What. The. Hell?!” Farah snarls, her fangs sinking out from her gums. “Have you gone mad?”

“You haven’t even begun to see mad.” Morgan whips her taser towards Farah’s neck, but the blow is intercepted by a slender arm, knocking the weapon out of her hand.

The smile on Farah’s face turns sinister. “You didn’t think that was gonna work twice, did you?”

Morgan snorts. “Yeah, I was hoping it would.” She pulls her stun baton off her belt and jabs it into Farah’s side, causing her to yelp and topple over.

A long sigh drags Morgan’s attention away from Farah to the last vampire standing. Nat, leaning against a glass display, frowns disapprovingly. “Well, that wasn’t very nice of you.”

“I am not nice.”

Nat exhales sharply, a sardonic grin on her face. “And do you wish to do the same to me then?”

“Why? You want me to?” Morgan matches her expression, raising the stun baton below Nat’s chin, hovering dangerously close to her skin.

The grin never leaves Nat’s face as she says, “You continue to entertain me, vampire.”

“Well, show’s over,” Morgan grunts. “Get me out of here.”

Nat steps away from the baton with the poise of a dancer. As she does, her form begins to fade and blend with the shadows in the room around her. The room spins rapidly around Morgan; she has no choice but to shut her eyes to quell the wave of nausea that hits her.

Once the ground feels steady again, she hazards a glance at the room. No longer is she standing in the middle of the sales floor, but rather in a room she does not recognize. It is completely bare save for a single object in the middle of the room, sitting directly in front of her.

It is an ancient-looking standing mirror, with a pristine wooden frame, carved to look like tangled vines. In the clean glass, she sees herself and the befuddled and slightly irritated expression on her face. Behind her, she sees a large shadow, watching her through the mirror with the glowing white holes in its head.

Instinctively, she turns to look behind her, but nothing is there. When she looks back at the mirror, it’s back.

“Neat trick.”

It clicks softly. _“I thought you’d like it, vampire…”_

Another face, partially covered by a niqab, arrives to join her reflection in mirror.

“What’s this?” Falasteen asks, approaching the object cautiously.

“The artefact, clearly.”

Falasteen moves her EMF meter so that it is nearly touching the glass. “Are you sure?”

The shade winks at Morgan from the other side. “ **Trust** me. I’m positive.”


	22. Window

Farah’s never really noticed the minute cracks in the ceiling of her room before. They’re not big enough that they show unless you’re really looking for them. She traces the faint spiderweb patterns with her eyes. She wishes she could sleep, but it feels as though her lids are being forced open by a taut chain.

Poppy’s gone, too. Not that she really misses her. Besides, who’d want a dumb ghost that stands at the foot of their bed and stares at them anyway? Who’d want the feeling of being watched? Who’d want the feeling that no matter what they do, where they go, someone is there, cataloguing their every move? So, maybe it’s good that Poppy is gone, but Farah cannot shake the paralyzing feeling that she’s closer than she knows.

She lets a deep sigh out of her body, and with it, more of her energy slips out. But her heart is wound too tightly to slow down. Vampires don’t really need sleep anyway, so she’ll be fine. And besides, whenever she closes her eyes…

She hears the knocking. Hesitant at first and rising in a crescendo – violently banging against the wood as the lock clinks stubbornly refusing to budge. Her hands are stinging with bruises and scratches. The scent of her own blood and sweat drifts into her nostrils, filling the empty space.

The box shudders and she can feel herself move and sway for a couple of minutes before she’s dropped to the ground again. Her eyes strain against the darkness and tears sting her eyes.

She hears the soft clink of the lock once more and fresh air rushes into the box as the lid swings open. She spots the full moon in the sky, hidden by thick grey clouds.

On shaking arms, she pushes herself up to a sitting position. She rubs the tears out of her eyes with the backs of her hands and looks around.

Just outside the box is a pair of slender white legs in pastel pink pencil skirt, dyed indigo by the darkness. And just beyond that, she can see a pale face with a halo of snowy hair, looking down upon her in concern – no, not concern, pity. Panic shimmies up through Farah’s body like an eel, wrapping itself around her heart.

Director Chance is leaning against a shovel in the ground, and in spite of the fact that she is surrounded by dirt, she looks immaculate – not a single speck on her. She clicks her tongue and leans down slightly, offering her hand to Farah.

Farah stares at it for a long moment, willing it to go away, as though it were an illusion created by her mind, but it remains there waiting for her. She shudders and clutches the edges of the box and shakily gets to her feet.

Chance withdraws her hand and takes a step back, allowing Farah to get out of the box and get a look at her surroundings more clearly. She is at the center of a circular room, surrounded by **windows** , and beside her is a single grave, freshly dug, as well as the black coffin she’d been lying in. The only person present aside from her is Chance, whose face is a placid unreadable mask.

Farah opens her lips to speak, but her voice does not come out, and attempting any further only makes her vocal cords ache with the effort. She feels her heart pulse unevenly in her chest.

“Don’t attempt to speak, Farah-dear.” Chance takes long, slow steps around the grave, her heels clacking sharply despite the dirt beneath them. She stops to hold two chilly fingers to the pulse-point beneath Farah’s left ear before dragging them in an icy trail along her jaw. “You’re afraid. Of me?”

The breath in Farah’s throat feels like a solid mass. Her body refuses to move – either that, or Farah has not even begun to decide what orders to give her trembling limbs.

“I’m only human, you know,” Charlie hums softly, her hands returning to her sides. Her lips tilt up in what might be described as a smile, but it only reminds Farah of the way a predator looks at its prey. “But you do understand, don’t you?” She continues her lazy prowl. “You understand fully that I have Ava in the palm of my hand, and that frightens you, doesn’t it?”

Without thinking, Farah’s hands grip the handle of the shovel and whip it around, aiming the flat end at Chance’s head. When the shovel is scarcely an inch from the white blonde hair, Farah’s muscles seize, leaving her in the swinging position. Chance’s whole image flickers, blinking and reappearing a foot away. The momentum returns to Farah’s swing and she loses balance, stumbling clumsily forward when her attack misses its target.

Chance lifts a single slender finger to push a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and out of her piercing violet eyes. “Try that again. See what happens.” It sounds like a threat, but the expression on her face is gleeful.

Farah’s arms tingle with stress. The shovel feels heavier than it should. With her vampire strength, it should be easier to hold up. With a labored grunt, she launches herself towards Chance, holding the shovel like a spear.

Again, Chance’s body flickers and reappears a short distance away, a light chuckle at her lips. The sound of it pierces her mind like a needle, bleeding her out slowly. Chance reaches into the inner pockets of her blazer and extracts a small wooden box. “Let’s make this more interesting.” She unfastens the small clasp of the box. “Care to hear your fortune?”

There’s nothing Farah can do or say to stop her. She swings the shovel at Chance again and again with inhuman speed, but Chance is faster every single time. She doesn’t even seem to break a sweat, still carefully opening her box.

The first one she pulls out seems to rise out of the box of its own accord, guided by her hand as though tethered by invisible puppet strings. The card grows in size until the image on it is almost as big as Farah. The Emperor depicted on the card resembles the late Director Aryan, still in his hospital gown; he reaches for the border of the card and pulls himself out of the card.

Farah stumbles backwards, careful not to stumble back into the ditch. She grips the shovel tighter, waiting for him to move.

Aryan runs at her and Farah swings the shovel on instinct. Unlike Chance, he does not attempt to dodge. The weapon hits him with a clang, sending him flying into the **window** behind him. The glass cracks as he hits it, but it doesn’t break. He slides down the wall and launches himself at Farah again.

This time, she slides out of the way, stepping rapidly around him so that she now stands by the broken glass. She watches him stumble to a stop and turn around. His eyes are pale, like a white film has grown to cover his pupils.

She shudders when her heart leaps abruptly before settling back to its sped-up pace. Regret staining her face, she runs at him and shoves him into the open casket on the ground. She then slams it shut and fastens the lock over it. Her eyes sting at the sound of him beating against the wood, a sound that could almost be mistaken for terror. It sends a chill creeping down her spine.

Chance’s frigid chuckle tugs Farah away from the coffin by her collar, forcing her attention to a second card pulled from the deck. Strength. From within, Ava turns her head to look at Farah with the same blank white eyes. She emerges from the cardboard to tower over Farah.

This time, Farah’s hands shiver in reluctance before she attempts to swing her shovel at the new enemy. And this time, Ava skillfully, blocks the attack and reaches for Farah’s neck. Firmly clenching her hands around the younger vampire’s neck, she tosses her like a ragdoll to the other side of the room.

Farah gasps sharply as her back hits the glass, and she tumbles to the ground in a heap, still hugging the shovel in her arms like a lifeline. Her spine aches as she pushes herself back up. As she does, she notices Ava’s combat boots right by her face. She wants to whimper or cry or yell for help, but she still cannot find her voice. Farah is lifted again, this time by the back of her shirt, as Ava raises her, meeting her eyes.

“Please, Ava, don’t do this,” she mouths helplessly.

The creature that looks like Ava cocks her head to the side, almost seeming to consider the words. Farah tightens her grip on the shovel.

“Ava, please…” she mumbles soundlessly. “Please…”

Quicker than Farah can blink, she’s rammed into the **window** behind her, her face pressed into the cracked glass. Her lip quivers in pain as well as fear. Ava pulls her back again, readying for another strike, when Farah holds the shovel out in front of her, facing the glass. She allows Ava to use her force to push the shovel through the **window** , breaking the glass completely.

The sound seems to startle Ava, who releases Farah, granting the younger vampire the chance to duck through the **window** and into the endless dark on the other side. Eager to escape the much stronger vampire, Farah does not even anticipate that she would feel the ground slip from beneath her, sending her plummeting into a void.

Ava leans out to watch her through the window, her expression still totally neutral. The last thing Farah sees before the window grows too distant to see through is Chance; even at a distance, the smirk on her face is unmistakable. She draws one final card and drops it down into the dark. Farah watches it flutter delicately after her.

Soon enough, all she can see is the inky blackness.

“Farah.”

The muffled voice is like a light, illuminating her way through. Her legs hit the ground and she runs – runs like it’s the only thing she knows how to do.

“Farah! Stop it!”

Her chest stings with bitter rage. At Chance. At Poppy. At herself for letting this happen.

“What’s gotten into you?”

She feels the light wrap her in a vice-like grip. It’s warm, like a hug, and she feels herself melt into it. The scent of sandalwood and cigarette smoke overwhelms her. She lets out a shaky breath, the dying breath of the dam that holds back her tears.

The body pressed against Farah’s tenses and then sighs. “Jeez, Farah. You sure made a mess of this place.”

Farah lifts her head, her amber eyes meeting a pair of solemn grey eyes. “Morgan?” she sniffles. “Where am I?”

Morgan pushes Farah away gently, allowing her to get a better look at where the two of them are standing. It’s made clear then that Farah and Morgan are not alone here. There are at least a dozen other agents surrounding them, including Nat and Unit Epsilon. And beyond that, she can see the SPECTRE medical wing. Each and every patient room has had its **windows** smashed in.

Farah takes a step back from Morgan. “I didn’t…” Her voice almost gets stuck in her throat again. “I didn’t do that. Morgan, I swear I –”

Morgan gently lifts a shovel leaning against the wall. “Had to pry this from your hands.”

The words entering Farah’s head feel like gibberish. She turns her head around, meeting eyes with Nat, who is nursing a wound in her side. She feels another sob rise to the top of her throat. “I did that? To Nat?” She stumbles towards Nat but stops halfway. “Nat, I didn’t know… I was…” She has absolutely no clue how to finish that sentence.

A heavy weight slams into the bottom of Farah’s gut. If she’s here in the medical wing, then Ava…

She spots Ava’s room a short distance away and leaps forward only to be caught by the elbow by Morgan. “Not so fast,” Morgan says.

Farah tries to tug her arm away. “I have to check on Ava. Please, Morgan. You have to let me check on her.”

Morgan shuts her eyes in fatigue. “They have to check you. To make sure you weren’t possessed or something. And you better hope this is possession, otherwise… well…” She looks away, unable to meet Farah’s eyes. “You really fucked up,” she says, her voice sounding weak.

Out of the crowd, Rebecca steps forward. The disappointment in her eyes sends shockwaves of dread through Farah’s body. She wraps a gentle arm around Farah’s shoulder. “I’ll take over from here, Agent Morgan.”

Morgan nods, relinquishing her hold on Farah and allowing the two of them to walk back towards the crowd. Farah pointedly avoids their looks, casting her gaze downwards.

As the crowd of Agents and doctors begins to disperse, Nat limps towards Morgan and, before the other woman can protest, wraps her arms around her in a tired embrace. “She’ll be alright,” Nat mumbles, more for herself than for Morgan.

Morgan hesitates. “Yeah, she will.”

When Nat pulls away, she nods wordlessly and turns away, moving towards Ava’s hospital room. Morgan reaches for her jacket pocket and tugs out a small rectangular piece of cardboard. She’d found the thing on Ava’s bed beside her head. She twirls the thing between her fingers.

It’s a tarot card. The Tower.


	23. Decay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:   
> => Descriptions of body horror and decay
> 
> otherwise a pretty chill chapter tho I promise

The static drones in Ava’s head until she wonders if she’s simply lost her hearing. She can feel herself freely floating in warm water. Her eyes open and she can see that she’s not far from the surface. Just beyond that, she can see a light. She wants to kick up and swim to shore, but her limbs feel like foreign objects attached to her body.

The surface breaks as a hand, unbelievably bright, reaches for her. It grips her by the forearm and drags her upwards and onto the shore. For a moment – but only a moment – Ava hears a lilting soprano singing her a lullaby; she sees the wet curls dangling over her savior’s shoulder; she feels the soft hand trace a line down her cheek.

“Hey, lady! Wake up!”

And then she’s shocked to reality. The sky isn’t as bright and seashore is gone, replaced by a dull green swamp. The savior leaning over her is no woman, but a child – scarcely older than 16. She has warm hazel eyes and unkempt black hair that barely reaches her chin. Her round lips are set in a frown as she gazes down at Ava.

“Hey, space case. I’m talking to you!”

Ava blinks incredulously. “What?”

A smug grin spreads across the kid’s face. “Oh? She speaks?” She leans back on her elbows and allows Ava room to sit up properly. “First time?”

With knitted brow, Ava scans her surroundings. She’s gone to many different places on assignment with the Agency, but never has she gone to a swamp this vast. It seems to go on and on in every single direction.

“Where am I?” Ava says, locking eyes with the younger girl.

The girl crosses her legs and leans in. “It’s called the Inbetween. The Aperture – if you wanna be fancy.” She then shrugs. “If you wanna be technical, you’re in my swamp.”

 _The Aperture_ is a term Ava recognizes – one Rhode had mentioned to her a while back. He’d said it is the thin film between life and death – a transitional realm. This is the realm of the shades.

“Are you a shade?” Ava asks bluntly.

The girl lets out a snort so exaggerated she almost sounds like she’s choking on her own spit. “A shade? You think I’m a –” She lets out giggle reminiscent of a deranged clown. “If I were a shade, you’d be dead. Or dead-er.”

“What’s your name?” Ava wrings her soaking wet hair and braids it to keep it away from her face.

She shrugs. “It’s Lorna.” Without skipping a beat, she asks. “Can I ask you a personal question?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “So, how did you die?” Just as Ava is about to open her mouth, Lorna lifts a finger up. “No! Wait, wait! Lemme guess. You’re like… A pretty white lady… Late twenties – early thirties… Athletic…” She shuts her eyes in concentration. “I wanna say… murder!”

Ava straightens her lips, but has a hard time hiding the amusement in her eyes. “No.”

“No?” Lorna blows into her bangs. “Okay, jeez. Boating accident?” Ava tries to get a word in again, only to be interrupted once more by Lorna. “Cuz I see cargo pants and I really don’t want to say military.”

“Not that either.”

“Good. Good. So, what is it then?” This time, the stream of words actually ends, and Ava is given a chance to reply.

Ava frowns at the concept of providing a cause of death for herself. She doesn’t fancy thinking of herself as dead – but if she’s in the Aperture chatting with a spirit, there’s few other conclusions she can draw from this information. Whether it is because the shock has not set in yet, or because a 900-year existence is more than enough time to prepare for this moment, she does not feel as moved as one would expect when she replies, “I was attacked by a shade.”

Lorna’s lips curve into an O. “SPECTRE. Shoulda guessed that first actually since you _did_ ask me if I was a shade.”

Ava doesn’t bother correcting her. “How did you die then?”

“Oh, nothing as sexy as ‘death by shade’” She shrugs. “Fell down a flight of stairs. Did not get to go to the afterlife, so now I haunt this neat little fake swamp.”

“Fake?”

Lorna gets to her feet and offers Ava a hand. “C’mon, let’s get out of here and I’ll show you around.”

At first glance, Ava had assumed the swamp was an endless maze of low-hanging tree branches and vines, but as Lorna leads her deeper in, she realizes there’s an order to the chaos – a strange symmetry in the patterns made by the sunlight as it filters through the leaves. Lorna finds her way through with ease, filling the silence with her chattering the whole way.

“This swamp is a manifestation of my psyche – an extension of myself. It used to be a tiny lake in the middle of an empty forest, until I got my grubby little hands on it.” Lorna lets out an airy giggle. “Perks of being permanently barred from crossing into the afterlife is I get a whole section of Inbetween just for me.”

“Barred how?” Ava frowns, watching the scenery shift from swampland to a wet plain. Even under direct sunlight, she does not feel its effects. It’s quite reminiscent of her time spent as a human – not that that’s a reassuring thought in the least.

“Ghost crimes,” Lorna replies grimly.

“Ghost crimes?”

She looks up at Ava and gives her a toothy grin. “Hey, you never told me your name.”

Ava smiles gently. “You never asked.”

“So, what is it?”

Ava bites her tongue for a moment in indecision. “It’s Ava.”

Lorna nods as she skips over a wet patch of grass, beckoning Ava after her. She then turns on her heel and begins walking backwards. “Hey, Ava, are you single?”

Ava raises an eyebrow. “No.”

“Nobody you – uh – left behind in the land of the living then?”

Uncertain where this line of questioning is leading, but amused nonetheless, she remarks, “I think I’m a bit too old for you.”

Lorna’s face twists in faux disgust. “No, grandma, I’m not asking for me. I have a boyfriend, y’know.”

“You ‘have’ one?” Ava asks. “Not past tense?”

“We met here! In the Inbetween. He’s a big grumpy asshole, but I love him.” She smiles dreamily. “Death can’t separate us cuz we’re already dead. It’s super romantic.”

With a short sigh, Ava smiles at her. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

“So, anyway, I’m asking if you’re single cuz well, and this is awkward, but…” Lorna purses her lips and glances behind her to make sure she’s not about to crash into anything. “My friend has been looking for a girlfriend. And I get it, y’know, you just died. You’re in shock and it hasn’t set in, but she’s single and she’s really hot. Promise.”

Ava bites her lip. Through all this, a prickly sensation nags at her mind – the feeling that she’s left someone waiting for her – that her presence here is only temporary. Therefore, the idea of planning her existence in this realm feels like giving up. “Lorna, is there any possible chance that I’m still alive – that somewhere my body is still alive, but unresponsive?”

Lorna slows her gait as she approaches a dry cliff. She sits cross-legged at the edge and pats the ground for Ava to join her. “It’s possible I guess.” Her voice has lost a lot of the energy it once had. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

Taking a seat beside her, Ava nods. “Lorna, it’s important that I know for sure.”

Lorna crosses her arms and sighs. “Listen. I’m not one of those creepy ghosts that’s like ‘OoOoOoo no! I won’t let you escape this place!’ Like that’s not me, okay. I just don’t want you to be disappointed when you find out you’re dead for good. Like you gotta be ready to accept you might just be dead forever.”

Ava looks out over the cliff at a large wasteland. A solitary dust cloud migrates over the dry earth. “I’ve been ready for my death for 900 years.”

The younger girl snorts. “That’s so fucking extra.” After a pause, she turns to face Ava. “900 whole years? Really?”

Ava gives her a mysterious smile.

With renewed excitement, Lorna exclaims, “No, Ava! You gotta explain yourself right this second!”

Waving away the demand, Ava looks out over the wasteland again. “Why’d you bring me here?”

Lorna lets out a quiet hoot of laughter, averting eye contact with Ava. “That’s –” She snorts. Once she’s composed herself, she looks Ava dead in the eye and says, “Everything the light touches is our kingdom.”

Ava sighs and shakes her head.

Bursting into a fit of giggles, Lorna punches Ava’s left shoulder. “C’mon. At least give me a chuckle!”

“Lorna…” Ava warns.

“Sorry!” Lorna chirps. “That down there is the Solitude. That’s where you want to go… if you’re actually still alive. But it’s also the most dangerous place here.”

“How so?”

As though summoned by Ava’s question, a dark swirl disturbs the dust clouds below as a large shade resembling a woman manifests out of the dust. She has long black hair that swirls around her as though it were part of the dust cloud. She is dressed in a long white chiton; however, where here legs would be, inky smoke emerges from the skirt.

Lorna leans into Ava and whispers, “That’s the Warden. She looks like a shade. She’s a spirit. Do you want the long exposition backstory, or can you do without?”

“Would it help?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, it would ruin her mystique. All you need to know is she is a witch and is looking for a vessel to bring her back to the world of the living. If you’re actually alive, that means you’re her type. And you cannot fight her in one-on-one combat. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Ava’s eyes widen in surprise at the admission. She cannot imagine this tiny human girl fighting anything, least of all something like the fearsome spirit below – at least not without dying a horrible death. Seeing as she is already dead, though, that may not be much of a concern of hers.

“And what would I have to do to find out if I’m alive or not?”

“Well, finding out is the first step.” Lorna holds up her index finger. “What you’re really asking is: How do you get back? Am I right?”

Ava nods. “I suppose so.”

Lorna raises her hand and snaps her fingers in front of Ava’s face, and as she does, the scenery melts like wet paint around her until the two of them are sitting in a forest clearing. The grass beneath them is thick and pillowy and purple hyacinths are blooming in abundance around them.

Plucking a single flower and putting it to her nose, Lorna smiles. “Interesting choice.”

She hops to her feet turns to face away from Ava. She then holds the hyacinth up and begins to pick out its petals and drop them into the grass. Before they hit the ground, they light up and turn to glittery dust. From the ground, vines emerge, rising vertically in a braided pattern, as though woven by an invisible hand. The vines form a slender oval shape about six feet in height, the tips of the vines meeting at the very top.

As soon as the oval closes, Ava can see something moving in the gap within – a vision. She stands up and approaches to examine it more closely. She can smell vanilla and cinnamon and the ocean – she can see a figure standing before her just on the other side. She recognizes the soft strawberry curls from her visions. Ava’s heart drops into her belly as she looks at the figure’s face – completely blank as though it had been erased.

“No,” she mumbles. She gently pushes Lorna out of her way and lifts a hand to the oval.

Like a mirror image of Ava, the figure raises her own hand until their fingers touch.

Despair drips down her body like sweat. “Where’s your face?” she whispers.

The figure tilts her head to the side like she’s heard Ava’s words but is simply unable to answer. She pushes her fingers through, weaving them between Ava’s.

“Ava…” Lorna mumbles, a tinge of concern in her voice.

“Wait.”

The fingers feel so warm. Ava closes her hand around the figure’s. As soon as she does so, long strawberry blonde ringlets start dropping out of her head in ribbons. The rosy skin of her head loses its tint and begins strip off of her skull. Her muscles atrophy beneath her marble skin until all that’s left of her body are the leathery strips that continue to peel off of her like old paint.

Where their hands are touching, she’s still alive. She’s still there. But soon, even those bones turn to dust between Ava’s fingers. A tremble travels through her body, starting at her still outstretched hand and moving up her arm and down her spine until she involuntarily closes her arms around herself defensively.

Where the figure once stood, Ava sees herself, standing atop the **decayed** remains – a true mirror image this time. She turns an almost accusatory glare at Lorna but softens it when she sees the teen flinch away.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“No, I’m sorry.” Lorna shoves her hands into her hoodie pocket. “I have no idea what the hell _that_ was. Was that someone you know?”

Ava looks back at her own image, standing alone in the oval frame. “No… I mean… It’s complicated.”

“Well…” Lorna lets out a long sigh. “You’re alive at the very least.”

An uncertain expression morphs Ava’s face. “How were you able to tell?”

“Are you gonna tell me how you’re 900 years old?” The girl smirks. She then sighs, her smirk turning into a wistful smile. “I’m kinda glad you’re still alive.”

Ava can’t hold in her chuckle at that. “Only ‘kinda’ glad?” She feels a sigh of relief bubble in her chest at the thought of it, however. She’s going to reunite with Nat, with Morgan, with Farah, with Rebecca…

Lorna sticks her tongue out at her. “I mean, that vision… That must be what destiny looks like, right? If you don’t know it, you will.” She shrugs, stretching her hoodie downwards. “At least, that’s what I think. That’s a whole mystery you’ll get to solve when you’re back on the other side!”

Ava looks at herself again; she tries to recall the warm feeling between her fingers and the spark she’d felt as those smaller fingers interlaced themselves with hers. She closes her hand into a fist, as though that could trap the sensation in the palm of her hand.

“Now, what?”

“Now we’re off to the Solitude.” Lorna twirls around and skips towards the edge of the clearing.

With a sigh, Ava quickens her pace to catch up.

Lorna winks at Ava as they get into step. “I hope you meet her, by the way.”

Ava’s jaw tenses and she ignores the statement.


	24. Enchanted

The school building looks dimmer, less vibrant, less **enchanted** than it had been before. As Nat walks along the hall, she can hear the soft tapping of her boots echo against the walls. She doesn’t feel the exhilarating chill of the wisps dancing around her, nor does she feel the warmth of companionship. She does not know why she’s come back here, and she does not know what she expects to find – perhaps it is simply clarity that she seeks, even if only a shred.

The face of her oldest friend flashes in her mind, her golden hair spread across her pillow, her emerald eyes hidden from sight. The thought of it wrings her heart so tightly she fears it may just tear into two and drop onto the ground in two shriveled misshapen pieces.

Ava’s nightmares had been growing ever more pronounced in the days leading up to this terrible misfortune. What Nat would give to see with her own eyes what scares Ava so much that she often refuses to sleep. If she could face this enemy with full knowledge of what it is, then perhaps she would be able to help.

And she’s told Ava as much. Stubborn as she is, even Ava must realize when she is in a losing battle – especially one that predates her vampirism.

The nightmares did not come so often at first, Ava had told her. They began when she was a human woman, as whispers in the night – a call that beckons her. Still in a deep sleep, she’d risen from her bed and chased after it as a young boy chases a butterfly. She’d run into the wilderness, ignoring the branches cutting into her skin and the stones slashing her feet. All she could hear was the call, and she’d allowed it to lead her right over a cliff.

The way she tells it, the water nearly claimed her that night, but she’d felt someone pull her ashore, hold her in their arms, and breathe life back into her. She does not recall who it had been, and the savior never came forward either. But for a time after, she would go sit at the edge of that cliff and stare at the sea and the rocks. She’d hoped her savior would come back and she could thank them, but centuries have passed, and they are likely long dead.

It was the night Ava was turned that the visions came back. She’d heard a bloodcurdling scream alongside hers as the red-hot pain of the transformation encompassed her body. To hear Ava tell it, she seemed to pity the voice in her head far more than herself in that moment.

The visions would then become so few and far between that she’d nearly forget about them only to have them revisit her when she least expects them to, like the ache of an old wound. She’d never felt the need to mention them to anyone else, least of all worry about them.

Whether or not the voices in Ava’s head are real, her terror is. The sensation of Ava’s head burrowed in Nat’s chest, her shoulders trembling like she’d been left out in a snowstorm, her hands bunched up in Nat’s clothing. It’s a side that only Nat has seen – one that she carries with her as a scar on her own heart. And now, a reminder of her failure to protect the most important person in her life.

Nat frowns, blinking away fresh tears and gripping the stair railing. Climbing up is not as easy. Her legs feel heavy, her joints rusted. She moves along, her shaky breathing filling the silence. She wishes she could hear the sound of the piano play so that she could ride the melody up like a magic carpet. Instead, only emptiness greets her as she makes her way to the second floor.

Her thoughts then drift towards Farah. Sweet Farah. Though she’d been with them a scant few years, it’s undeniable the way she’d woven herself into the fabric of this team as though she’d always been there. It’s hard to imagine Unit Bravo without what she brings in light and joy and levity. And it’s hard to imagine that same woman filled with such a blind and frantic rage that she’d destroy half of the SPECTRE medical wing.

And yet, Nat saw this with her own eyes – experienced it. Her hand instinctively rubs over the gash in her side when Farah had buried the shovel in her. It had taken the wound nearly half an hour to heal completely. She knows that, had Farah known who she’d been fighting, she wouldn’t have done it. The wound stung all the same.

She passes by the music room. The door is shut and covered in wooden boards, a sight that causes sorrow to bubble in her chest. She tears her eyes away and continues to walk through the hall with absolutely no destination in mind.

The results of the SPECTRE investigation into Farah’s behavior have not come out. Until then, Farah has been under strict SPECTRE supervision, and Nat absolutely cannot imagine that going over well for the younger vampire. However, secretly, Nat only hopes this means Farah decides to use this time to get some much-needed sleep.

It’s Morgan that Nat cannot read. She’s been far too composed – a trait she shares with Ava. She’s been focused and present in a way that makes Nat wonder if she’s perhaps trying to make up for the loss in her own way by allowing Ava to carry on through her. Morgan carries the tragedy on her shoulders as though the burden is hers alone to carry.

Nat feels a tear slide down her face on behalf of those Morgan refuses to shed. She clutches a hand to her heart as if to hold her heart in place and stop it from slipping onto the ground and shattering at her feet. She leans against the wall and slides down until she’s sitting with her long legs bent slightly at the knees.

She’d come her to be with someone. The facility with all the personnel coming and going feels empty, nonetheless. But all she’s achieved by coming into this school is to become even more isolated. Her anxieties had frightened the wisps the last time she’d come here, so perhaps it is simply that they are hiding from her. That is a thought that buries the loneliness deeper – twisting the blade even.

It becomes hard to control the shudder that wracks Nat’s body or the tears that wet her face. Even now as she lays her heart bare on an empty stage, her mind can do nothing but run through the knowledge she has compiled throughout her several centuries of life. She swats at every shadow, picks through every memory, scrutinizes every passing thought as though this will be the one that holds the solution for the mess they’ve gotten into.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Nat lifts her head out of her hands, looking very much the part of the deer in the headlights. Sitting on the opposite wall is Rhode, his own legs extended parallel to Nat’s. She combs her fingers through her hair and rushes to scrub the sadness off her face.

“Rhode! I was –I didn’t hear you approach,” she says, still unable to morph her face into the polite smile she wants to present.

An easygoing smile graces his face as he turns his head to look down the hall, pointedly avoiding her gaze. “Humans can be much sneakier than you give them credit for.” The smile fades slightly. “Besides, I wasn’t quite sure when to announce my presence. I certainly didn’t want to eavesdrop.”

A laugh bubbles out of Nat, but it sounds corrupted by the grief still gripping her vocal cords. “Eavesdrop? On what exactly?”

“Sounds like you were having a moment, and…” He hesitates before turning to look at her again. “If it’s not too presumptuous of me, I just thought maybe you might need a friend.”

A strained smile spreads across her face – the best she can do given the circumstances. “I’d like that, yes.”

Rhode lets out a long sigh through his nose and leans forward on his knees. “Came her to find Mercy, didn’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“She’s pretty fickle. Locks up the music room when she’s not in the mood to see anyone.” He jerks his thumb in the direction of said room. “Most I ever got her to tell me about herself is that she’d been a witch when she was alive. Which only explains a little about her.”

Nat looks down at the ground and begins to trace circles into the wood below her. “I thought she might help me organize my thoughts.”

Rhode lets out a lighthearted snort. “You know, normally, someone’s first choice to talk through their issues would not be a mysterious phantom in a haunted elementary school.”

She flashes him a smile. “You’re here, too.”

“That I am,” he concedes. “No Agency therapist is going to both give me cryptic advice _and_ scare the living daylights out of me simultaneously.”

Nat hums in agreement, laying her head on top of her knees.

“Well, since you have me instead of Mercy today, I can give it a shot,” he says. “Can’t guarantee it will help, though.”

She feels the tug of her lips and a lightness of her heart. “I suppose it will have to do.”

He laughs, gruff yet warm. “So, I never told you how I found this place.”

Nat turns her head so that she is looking intently at him. “I’m listening.”

“My twin sister, Lia, was a Resonant. When we were kids, she’d always had a knack for talking to things that weren’t there – things that I couldn’t see. It didn’t help her make many friends in school, but what she lacked for in living friends, she more than made up for with the dead. So, I guess working for the Agency – for SPECTRE – was the natural course for her.

“Lia found this place first. Wasn’t even on assignment. Just ‘happened’ to find it,” he says, raising air quotes. “She’s drawn to these places like bees to pollen. And she couldn’t wait to bring me here.” He lets out a sheepish chuckle when his eyes meet Nat’s.

“And then what?” she asks gently.

“She told me that walking in would be like walking into a shower of stars – that the experience would be magical – transcendent. It wasn’t. I walked in and nothing happened. I didn’t see anyone or anything. It was an empty school, just like this. But Lia… Oh if you could have seen the smile on her face that day. She was radiating with joy and it was infectious. I wanted to pretend I could see them, too, just to share in just a bit of that light instead of being left in the dark on my own.”

Nat’s brow knits in sorrow as Rhode lowers his gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry, Rhode.”

“Yeah…”

“But you were able to see –”

“I wasn’t,” he interrupts her. “I never have been. I guess Lia hogged all the ESP in the family. I lied; I’ve never actually met Mercy. All I know is what Lia told me. Whenever I come here and I find that music room open, I sometimes sit down in one of the seats and imagine the both of them sitting there: Mercy at the piano and Lia dancing with the wisps.” His voice trails off. He then notices Nat’s expectant gaze and clears his throat. “But you have met her, haven’t you? You might have the gift, too.”

Nat purses her lips in consideration. “What good is a gift if I can’t use it to save my friend?”

Rhode pushes off the ground and steps over to Nat, hovering over her. He offers her his hand. “Well, I’m no Mercy, but I can tell you that the moment you feel the most hopeless is usually the moment you’re closest to the solution. You’re brilliant, Nat – more brilliant than you give yourself credit for, if not the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met. If anyone can get Ava out of this, it’s you.”

Her face heats up as she grips Rhode’s outstretched hand, allowing him to help her up. He hastily drops her hand and takes a long step back. His eyes wander around the hall, anywhere but Nat’s face.

“Thank you.” When she manages to catch his gaze again, she finds herself holding it, a smile unfolding at her lips.


	25. Filthy

Charlie’s smirk is the gleam of a knife that cuts through the dark.

Her icy fingertips dance across Farah’s skin like spiders scuttling through the fuzz on her arms.

Her snow-white hair hanging over her shoulder, casting a shadow over her porcelain face.

Her violet eyes twinkle, bubbling with poison.

The steady _beep-beep-beep_ of Farah’s heart accelerates.

_“Shh… It’ll all be over soon…”_

_BANG!_

Farah’s eyes snap open, her vision slowly adjusting to the darkness of the room. It’s much smaller than her room in the facility and is more like a cell than an actual room. She sees Chance’s eyes in the bland concrete walls, feels her hands in the plain white sheets on the bed. She hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since she’d arrived – and she’d know, since all she’s been allowed to do for the past couple of days, beyond wandering the SPECTRE facility with a Specter escort, is sleep.

She cautiously gets up from her bed and approaches the door to her tiny room. She strains her hearing. A man lets out a strangled yelp before hitting the ground (presumably) with a thud. She can hear mumbling in the distance, but it’s hard to discern the tone.

Farah looks around her room for something that could reasonably be used as a weapon. She leans against the wall beside the door with a sigh. The whole place has been vampire-proofed; the bed cannot be broken with vampire strength (well, Ava could probably break it – she shakes off the thought). If it comes to it, she’ll have to rely on her natural strength.

Another Agent goes down on the other side of the door; this one is closer. She stands in front of the door, fists out, listening to the boots slam against the ground. There’s something familiar about that nonchalant aggression.

A harsh bang on the lead-lined door causes Farah to leap a couple of feet away from the door. The blow causes the door to curve in. One more bang and the door jumps out of its frame and topples to the ground with a clang.

When the dust settles –

“Morgan?”

The older vampire is standing in the doorframe, a wolfish smirk on her face. “That’s the most fun I’ve had in a _long_ time.” Farah has never been more relieved to see Morgan in her life. She looks titanic framed by the bright fluorescent lights illuminating the hallway.

Farah snorts, the relief dripping off her like water. It’s been a while since she’s seen anything other than jaded indifference on Morgan’s face. “Sounds like the start of a fun night.” A conspiratorial smile spreads across her face.

Just as the words leave her lips, the fluorescents dim and a deafening siren begins to blare, wiping the smiles off both the vampires’ faces. They wince and hunch over, their hands clapped over their ears.

“The headphones!” Morgan snaps.

The sound reverberates in Farah’s head, making her temples throb and her vision blur. Her heart begins to beat faster as the pressure starts to become unbearable. She’s never felt anything like this before. Aren’t Agency alarm systems supposed to account for the supernaturals with hypersenses? Clearly the SPECTRE division never got the memo.

She feels something soft slide over her head, muffling the sound until it is just an unpleasant hum in her ears. Steadying her breathing, she straightens her back and comes face to face with Ken from Unit Epsilon. His feathery black hair is more tousled than usual. He gives her a cheeky salute.

“Can you hear me, Farah?” His voice comes from within the headphones on her ears.

She’s so relieved that she no longer feels as though her brain is being slowly lowered into a deep frier that she’s tempted to grab the man and kiss him square on the lips. She does not, however. She nods gratefully, instead. “What’s going on?”

Morgan is adjusting the headphones on her ears when Falasteen appears from behind her. Her eyes conveying a deep concern. “Containment breach,” she says. “We have five minutes.”

Ken turns his head towards them. “And Rhode?”

“If he and Nat didn’t get lost in each other’s eyes,” Morgan shudders. “Should already be in the getaway car.”

The group starts to make their way back up the corridor leading away from the room, but Farah lags behind uncertainly. “Wait! Guys, _seriously_ , what are we even _doing_?”

“We’ll explain later,” Morgan says, indelicately shoving the unconscious body of an Agency guard with her boot as Falasteen works on getting the automatic door open.

Ken places a hand on the back of Farah’s arm reassuringly, ushering her forward. “We’re getting out of here.”

The SPECTRE facility looks a lot less prim and polished with the fluorescent lights dimmed and the alarms pulsing with blinding white flashes. As they move through the high-security area Farah had been kept in, she gets a good look at Morgan’s handiwork. She hasn’t left a single human conscious – not to mention the extent of the property damage.

Falasteen gets to work on the last door standing between them and the large SPECTRE atrium. She appears calm, but the vampires can hear her heart thudding loudly in her chest – far more loudly than her fellow Specter at least.

Ken stands on the other side of the door. He meets Farah’s eyes with an easygoing expression that seems almost out of place with the sirens and the lights going off in the background. “We don’t have a lot of time. They won’t be looking for us yet, but Chance definitely knows we’re up to something.”

“Up to what?” Farah insists. She’s been growing ever more antsy for as long as Morgan, Ken, and Falasteen have been keeping her in the dark. She knows that whatever they’re doing, it’s clearly going to get them in _a lot_ of trouble with the Agency. While she’s not exactly complaining about being let out of the oppressive dark room the SPECTRE personnel have been keeping her in, she’s got a pretty cozy gig as an Agent; it would be a shame to compromise it. Her apprehension is mounting with each step she takes.

“We’re getting Ava back,” Morgan says. The words shock Farah into silence. “Nat’s figured it out.”

***

Bundled up in Nat’s arms, Ava has never looked smaller. Her blonde head is nestled in the curve of Nat’s neck, and her body is pressed against Nat’s chest. And yet, she feels heavy – like three hundred years tucked into her sturdy frame, memories inscribed in the lines of her jaw, the curves of her fingers, the shadows behind her ears. The rhythm of her heart at rest is so familiar to Nat she could play it by heart. The thought of her plan not working – that heartbeat being stifled for eternity – hangs over Nat like dark cloud.

Two Agency SUVs are parked outside the innocuous-looking ranch used as a cover for the facility. Trigger leans out of the driver’s seat of one of them, giving Nat a smile that has an almost supernatural calming quality to it. “You guys made it!”

Rhode, who’s at Nat’s heels, speeds towards the empty car behind Trigger’s, opening the door to the back seat. Nat rushes forward, tightening her grip on Ava as though she were afraid of dropping her. She feels Rhode’s hands, hot against her skin, as he pulls Ava out of her grasp and helps to lay her down in the backseat of the vehicle.

“Thank you for this, Rhode.” Nat’s normally smooth voice is marred by cracks born of the exhaustion that has been chipping away at her all this time. The air between them is heavy with unspoken nuance – what Rhode is risking by doing this – what all of Unit Epsilon is risking by doing this – how the Agency will retaliate for such subordination.

He reaches for her shoulder, his hand hovering millimeters over the luxurious fabric of her sweater before dropping it to his side again. “If it brings Ava back, then it all will have been worth it.”

Nat gives him a tired smile before circling around to the passenger seat of the car.

The remaining members of Units Bravo and Epsilon arrive as Rhode is letting himself into the vehicle. He locks eyes with Falasteen, who nods curtly. “We’ve got Ava in the backseat. We’ll meet you over at Penney House.” With that, he pulls away from the group, driving off along the dirt path leading back to the road.

Trigger waves her arm, beckoning the rest of the team through the window. “C’mon, team. Let’s get out of here.”

With inhuman speed, Morgan is at the passenger-side door. She opens it and dumps herself into the seat, watching Farah slump through the window.

The rest of the group climbs into the back seat, with Farah sitting in the middle seat. “You didn’t even call shotgun!” she exclaims with a pout, leaning forward with one elbow on Trigger’s seat and the other on Morgan’s seat.

“Shotgun,” Morgan says flatly. She pulls her cigarette pack out of her jacket pocket and leisurely pulls one out.

Farah rolls her eyes. “Hey, Trigger, do you have that tape we found when we did that Tom Selleck assignment?”

Trigger glances back at Farah. “Naturally.”

Ken snorts. “This SUV has a cassette player?”

She directs an offended look to the only man in the car. “Of course, it does.”

Sitting back in their seats as it speeds along the highway towards the town of Fort Sier, 80’s pop blaring from the speakers, chilly night breeze blowing through their hair, feels like stepping out of one reality and into another. Trigger keeps the conversation going the entire time, filling the car with an electric and infectious energy. While they’re within the frame of the SUV, they’re just five people on a road trip.

This is an atmosphere that Farah has been craving, and she drinks it all in, letting it fill her to the brink. The music lulls the anxiety that had been beating at her mind relentlessly and allows her to release the tension building in her shoulders. While Morgan and Falasteen are content to look out their respective windows in silence, Ken and Trigger are more than enough to keep her engaged.

But it’s still hard to forget that there’s another car – one transporting the very unconscious Ava. The other reality knocks on the rear window just behind Farah’s head. The soft tapping is audible in every brief silence or lull in the conversation. The tension never leaves her fully; it simply sinks until it’s sitting on her heart, idly kicking its legs against her flesh.

She still remembers the fear she’d felt when Poppy grabbed her – can still feel the way Poppy’s fingers were so cold they burned her flesh. She can still remember the way Ava had put herself between Farah and Poppy with no reservations, like she’d done it a thousand times before – could do it on instinct alone. If this is the action that sealed Ava’s fate, then Farah knows what she has to do. She can’t falter or panic, not when it’s Ava’s life on the line.

The conversation has melted into a comfortable silence when Farah decides to break it. “So, what did Nat figure out?” Once the first question slips out, the rest follow like spilled marbles. “What are we doing? Are we even allowed to be doing this? And what about Rebecca?”

Ken places a hand on Farah’s shoulder, drawing her gaze towards him. “One question at a time, eh?” He then removes his hand, leaning back against his door. “For starters, we are absolutely breaking a lot of Agency rules and there will definitely be consequences. But I’m sure you guessed that much based on the thrashing Morgan gave SPECTRE security.”

Trigger lets out a hoot of laughter. “Wish I could have seen that.”

He chuckles in reply. “Your girl fights _dirty_ , Trig. It was a massacre. Absolutely **filthy**.”

Farah can hear a nearly imperceptible hum of satisfaction from Morgan at the praise. She leans in between the front seats again. “What about –"

“Rebecca doesn’t know anything,” Morgan answers before taking a long drag from her cigarette. “We didn’t want to risk involving her.”

“And Nat?”

Falasteen sighs, speaking her first words since they started their long drive. “She figured out who the spirit possessing your commanding agent is.”

They glide past the “Welcome to Fort Sier” sign, which sits alone in a patch of overgrown weeds, without even a streetlamp illuminating it. The town is drowned in shadow with not a single illuminated window or lamp in sight. Farah wonders if this is another one of the towns the Agency has had to quarantine for hostile supernatural presences.

The energy that once consumed Farah has subsided into a soft buzz. “So, what are we doing here?”

She feels Falasteen stiffen against her shoulder and press herself closer to the door beside her. Trigger also hesitates to speak. It is Ken who answers her question. “This is Fort Sier. One of the most haunted towns you’ve never heard of. And we’re going to the epicenter of the haunting – Penney House.”

The question still building on Farah’s tongue is halted in its tracks by Trigger, who does not spare the vampire a glance as she speaks in a sharp and high-strung tone. She sounds like a totally different person, and Farah finds that Trigger can infect the others with her uneasiness as well as her excitement. “That’s where Director Aryan was taken down.” She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers hovering over to the dial on her dashboard to lower the volume of the music, which feels so alien now that the subject has turned so serious. “They only let Guardian class Specters into places like this.”

“Guardian class?” Farah parrots.

“Ranked more highly than our own Unit Alpha. They’re what you’d call our ‘Super-Agents’ – best of the best.”

Morgan clicks her tongue. “If you’re scared of getting killed, you didn’t have to come.”

A disdainful scoff sounds from the driver’s seat. “If you’re not scared out of your mind right now, Morgan. You should be.”

On that sour note, the car falls silent. They continue to pass by the gloomy scenery of Fort Sier. And the dread continues to seep into Farah’s blood, paralyzing her more surely than any poison could. Watching the silhouette of Penney House approach in the front window, she is almost certain it’s looking right back at her.


	26. Past

“What’s this then?”

Ava and Lorna stand before a ruined gate set in a colossal stone wall, beyond which is the expansive wasteland that Ava had seen from up on the cliff earlier. The portion of the wall that the gate had been set into has crumbled, giving it the appearance that something gargantuan had crashed through and broken it. The rusted gate is visible just through the gap in the wall, lying on the ground.

A warm dusty breeze passes alongside them, causing their hair to flutter. Lorna stares through the gap in the wall, her breath catching in her throat. “That gate used to contain the Warden. She’s still stronger when she’s in the Solitude though. I think it’s a part of her. I don’t… exactly know how it works.”

Ava nods in understanding. There is absolutely nothing inviting in what she can see from the outside – there are grey and gnarled trees broken and uprooted, the dry ground is cracked in several locations, there are large boulders that seem to be growing out of the ground. She can hear soft moans, carried on the wind.

As though perceiving the unspoken question on her mind, Lorna remarks, “She takes people here and she feeds on them until there’s nothing left but an echo. Not even their memory.”

Ava’s gaze slides towards Lorna. She’s unsure if she heard her correctly. “Their memory?”

Lorna does not return her gaze, instead her eyes roam along the Solitude, as though searching for something. She exhales slowly. “Not even the people who knew them would be able to remember them if they tried. They still existed – they still made their mark on the world. The world might remember them – might remember their legacy. But their name, their love, their hate, their place in people’s hearts, it’s just replaced with a giant void.” She places a small fist over her chest, a far-off expression on her face.

Then, all at once, that expression is gone. She turns to look at Ava. “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen to you. Just remember that if you die here, you die in real life, alright?”

“Noted.” Ava locks her jaw as she stares into the gaping maw of the beast.

Lorna turns around and reaches for Ava’s hands, catching the vampire off-guard as she does. She tightens her grip when she feels Ava resist her. “Ava, before we go in there, I need to do something.”

With a frown, Ava replies, “And what’s that?”

Without answering, Lorna lets go of one of Ava’s hands and reaches up to her head. Her hand grazes Ava’s cheek, ascending it until it reaches her temple. She presses the spot gently with the pads of her fingers. “This is going to hurt.”

“What –”

A piercing sensation surges through her, starting where Lorna’s fingers are resting against her head and connecting to the other temple like a lightning bolt. It descends her spine and races through her every nerve. Her vision blurs until she can see only white and then red and black as she shuts her eyes. She can hear a guttural scream – it sounds like her own voice. The fingers wrapped around Ava’s hand tighten. It’s the only sensation that isn’t pure scalding agony.

Through the darkness, images flash across her mind.

A grassy hill, speckled with white – the grey walls of a castle – the gates that open for her as she passes – the bowed heads as she passes by – the snow crunching beneath her boots…

A man stands before her, dark golden hair peppered with grey, his back straight as a board. A sword is held out towards her in his open palms. He doesn’t say a word, but she hears his voice nonetheless – words that ricochet against the walls of her mind – words of guidance, laughter, pride, remorse…

On instinct, she feels her lips form a word. “Papa…”

He does not reply, thin lips unmoving. His face is a stoic mask – an expression she has worn countless times herself. She watches another figure approach, her elegant emerald gown bundled in her hands so as to prevent it dragging along the floor behind her. The unmistakable face of Ava’s mother – the prominent lines and angles Ava herself has inherited. She stops just a few paces away, watching Ava expectantly. Expecting _what_?

Ava’s eyes travel to the sword again, still resting in her father’s strong and calloused hands. His icy green eyes watch her from beneath hooded lids. The sword gleams bright in the sun and in the polished steel, she can see her own eyes staring back.

She reaches uncertainly for the hilt of the blade. The feeling of it in her hand fills is familiar and she feels just a bit more powerful for it. Her arm feels steadier already and the tension in her shoulders slips off her like satin. The weight of the blade anchors her to the ground. She takes a few steps back to swing it experimentally, going through the motions as though the blade never left her hand all those centuries ago.

And then the pain is back. Searing and all-encompassing. Her father and mother disappear – the men bowing – the castle – the snow beneath her feet…

She sticks her sword into the dirt, holding onto it for dear life as the ground sways beneath her feet. Her knuckles are bone white as they tighten around the hilt of the blade. The electricity skids along her nerves, and it’s all she can do to keep her muscles taut and her limbs from turning to jelly. It takes all her concentration; one slip and she’d unravel like a ball of yarn.

Then the surge of painful energy slips out of her nerve endings, leaving her feeling raw and spent. She opens her eyes once more, blinking away the wetness obscuring her vision. Her hands tremble slightly on the hilt as the last of the ache leaves her body.

Lorna is still in front of her, dark brown eyes widened in curiosity and wonder. She takes a step back and holds her arms out, palms up, gesturing in Ava’s direction. “It worked!”

Ava pries her voice off the walls of her throat. “ _What_ worked?” She nearly growls at the girl and has to stop herself. “What did you do?”

The teen shrugs. “Well, I wasn’t about to let you go into the Solitude unarmed! And look at you! You look so badass! Like an old-timey knight!”

Ava’s eyes widen and she brings one of her hands up to her face. Instead of her pale skin, she sees a gauntlet unlike anything she’s worn before – made of a gleaming ebony metal, engraved with a delicate runic pattern that seems to glow a dim gold. It fits her impeccably, and when wiggles her fingers around, the motion is remarkably fluid.

She then turns her gaze below to the breastplate that has curiously affixed itself to her torso, and the du Mortain crest proudly, elegantly emblazoned upon it in silver. She looks even lower at her tasset, her greaves, her sabatons – all expertly crafted, fitting her body precisely. She’s never worn anything like it before – it’s all so sleek, like an idealized painting from a children’s fairytale picture book.

But the sword, still buried in the dirt, that’s her own sword – a blade she’s held and swung more times than she can count. Holding it feels like regaining a limb she didn’t know she’d lost in the first place. Even that, however, has an otherworldly sparkle to it – it has a polish to it that even the blacksmith who forged it could not bestow.

She reaches around her back, her fingers meeting a cool surface. She pulls a gleaming kite shield off her back and holds it in front of her, marveling at the detail and craftsmanship, just as intricate and just as masterful as the suit of armor. Her family crest is etched in long and swirling lines along the surface of the shield. She notes that the material is too heavy to make for a practical shield – at least not for a human; for a vampire, on the other hand, the weight is comfortable in her hands.

She doesn’t need to breathe air and she’s breathless, nonetheless. “What is all this?”

Lorna links her hands behind her back and shrugs. “We all have one – the form we take when we want to protect our heart and mind from the darkness. That’s yours.”

Indeed, Ava does feel safer knowing she’s armed and armored. “And you have one too?”

With a sly grin, Lorna holds her hands up and snaps her fingers. As soon as she does, several colorful orbs, as small as marbles, manifest around her, each affixing itself to a different joint. Within seconds, a white glossy material has wrapped around the teen’s limbs like ribbons. A bubble helmet grows over her head with glass too tinted to see her face inside. And once she is completely covered, a set of mechanical-looking wings snap out of her back.

“What do you think?” she asks sincerely, her voice muffled from behind the glass.

Ava examines the strange armor on Lorna. It looks so alien – completely unlike the rather traditional style of Ava’s armor. In fact, Lorna appears to look more like a giant mechanical harpy. “Impressive,” Ava replies, still trying to process the transformation that has just been demonstrated. It does occur to her that it is this armor that must have allowed Lorna to survive her encounter with the Warden.

The talons that constitute Lorna’s sabatons push her up into the air; she flutters a foot off the ground and twirls in place before landing again. “Thank you!”

Ava faces the Solitude once more, taking a step onto the threshold. A gust of hot wind passes through the opening in the wall, blowing through her loose braid.

“You look like you know how to use that sword,” Lorna says casually, standing beside the vampire, who nods silently. “That’s good.”

Trekking through the Solitude is like walking into an oven. Even the wind carries malicious intent. The lost souls wandering this plane cannot be seen, but they can be acutely felt; they are the sudden wave of heat that passes through Ava’s body – they are the quakes that rumble in the pit of her gut, like dread that sneaks up behind her and covers her head in cloth.

Even Lorna, who had been so amiably chatty before, is uncharacteristically silent. She only speaks to inform Ava of what their plan is. “I’m going to be leading you as far as I can into the Solitude. There should be a chasm full of the darkness that Shades are made of. The Warden is going to try and pull you into it.”

Ava nods in understanding. “What of the Shade that brought me here?”

“It should be at the other side of the chasm, blocking the way out.”

“The way out?”

Lorna sighs. “It’s like a doorway – a portal that should take you directly back into your body, wherever that is.”

The wasteland feels endless, like a blank grey canvas extending in every direction as far as the eye can see. Although, the dust clouds polluting the air have effectively cut that field of vision in half.

“Anyhoo,” she adds, “Whatever you’re gonna have to fight to get back into your body is nothing compared to the Warden. I am hoping we don’t have to fight her but –”

Her words are drowned out by the sound of wings beating loudly behind them.

“ _But what?_ ” The voice is slow, distorted, and guttural. It slows their gait to a halt.

They come face to face with a creature, humanoid in form, with burnt grey skin. Atop its head are two massive horns like handlebars and protruding from its bare muscular back are two leathery wings, which beat rhythmically to keep it elevated. The only piece of clothing on it is a pair of dark maroon harem pants. Its face is demonic, its face twisted in a permanent scowl and its red eyes sitting deep beneath its heavy brow.

Ava’s hand instinctively grips the hilt of her sword, but Lorna waves a single clawed gauntlet in front of her.

“Babe!” Lorna chirps, her tone considerably less grim than it had been less than a minute ago.

 _Ah… the boyfriend,_ Ava notes wordlessly. Although, she had not expected him to be quite so… different from Lorna. It does occur to her that she does not truly know all that much about her escort after all.

The demonic creature raises a brow. “What are you doing here? Are you trying to get yourself destroyed?” He doesn’t even open his mouth as he speaks – the words come out of the ether and find their way to their ears. His gaze shifts towards Ava, calmly evaluating her. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking with his expression frozen in that grimace.

“I can handle myself just fine,” Lorna complains. “Besides, I’m helping Ava find her way home.”

He scoffs, directing his next words towards Ava. “You’re dead. This is your new home. The End.”

“Shadow!” she scolds, turning her head to look at Ava through the tinted glass. “I’m not abandoning you.” Looking at the demon, Shadow, again, she says, “Either you help or leave.”

He simply lets out a long sigh and continues hovering before them with his arms crossed. Lorna opens her mouth to say something else, only to be silenced by a raised hand from Shadow.

The rumbling in Ava’s gut grows more agitated and the wind picks up speed – souls unseen scurry around like rats in a cage, frantically trying to escape.

“Too late for that,” Shadow grunts, taking a protective step closer to Lorna.

The winds seem to circle the trio. Ava tries to strain her vision, looking for the telltale black smokey tail of the Warden, but the dust has grown so thick that she can scarcely see the two adolescents accompanying her. Amidst the chaos, she feels a gauntlet grab her left arm and a large hand wrap around her right arm, and before she can react, her feet are no longer touching the ground.

“Go, go, go, go, go –” Lorna starts chanting.

As Ava is carried through the dust, a piercing shriek follows after her. It sounds so human that it sends a jolt of panic through her. The feeling passes quickly, though, replaced by adrenaline. Craning her neck around, she can see the face of the Warden up close. She looks like a human with skin so pale that it looks like it’s made of pure white ceramic – her eyes are bright and blue, wide open as though in fear – and her plump lips are forming words without making a sound.

“We’re running away?” she asks, tearing her eyes away from the hypnotic azure of the Warden. “Didn’t you say we were going to fight her?”

Lorna lets out a high-pitched laugh. “Oh, fuck no. We can’t beat her. We flee like the chickenshit cowards that we are and hope we don’t die. That’s the strategy here.”

From even further behind them, the sound of a thudding so loud it could shake the earth can be heard. The dust is too thick to see what it could possibly be. As Ava turns her head, she can see the Warden’s hand extended to her side, fingers passing through the dust as though it were water. For a fraction of a second, a face appears in the dust, mouth wide open in agony. It’s gone when she blinks.

“We’re going to drop you, Ava,” Shadow says, jolting Ava’s attention back to her two escorts.

“ _What?_ ” she snaps, feeling panic swell in her chest. She’ll fight the Warden if she has to but doesn’t appreciate being left in the dark.

“Just trust us!” Lorna’s voice is a lot softer and more reassuring, but it only dampens Ava’s agitation by a fraction.

Without even a countdown, the couple relinquishes their hold on Ava, sending her falling towards the ground as the thudding grows louder, beating against her eardrums. But before she hits the ground, her body collides with something solid, its surface swaying and grooving beneath her as it moves. She finds her arms instinctively hooked around its scaly neck. Awake to what has just occurred, Ava examines her new steed, running her hands over its neck and back. It’s like a large lizard, with brown-orange scales and a long neck that arches around to look at her, almost as though it were making sure she’s there. It squawks quietly before facing ahead.

If Ava didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed it was a dinosaur. But that would be ridiculous.

“I can see the canyon!” Lorna calls out over the wind. “We just need to make it **past** it, and she won’t follow!”

Ava risks another glance behind her. The Warden’s hand is outstretched towards her, fingers curled inward, beckoning. _“Fall into… the light…”_ Her voice is raspy and weak. “ _The light will greet you – but darkness never dies…”_

An image flashes in Ava’s mind – blood, rain, dirt, darkness, pink rose petals slipping between her fingers.

_“Everything will be alright…”_

_I don’t care if everything’s alright!_

“Enough!” Ava snarls, covering her ears and forcing herself to focus on the path ahead.

“You doing alright down there?” Lorna flutters close-by, keeping up with the sprint of the dinosaur.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re gonna have to brace yourself,” Shadow warns. “We’re approaching the canyon and we’re gonna jump.”

A nervous titter passes through Lorna’s lips. “Well, _you and Rexy_ are gonna jump. Shadow and I can fly.”

“This isn’t a T-Rex,” Ava remarks.

“No, I know that. His name is Rexy, though.”

With a deep sigh, Ava wraps her arms around the dinosaur’s neck, squeezing her legs over its back. Soon enough, she can see the canyon too.

The creature speeds up as it sprints towards the chasm, and for a moment, Ava imagines not making the jump and simply falling into the darkness –

_“—but darkness never dies…”_

She growls and shakes off the thought. No; she has to get back to her body and back to her team.

She closes her eyes right before the jump. Her stomach turns beneath her skin as the dinosaur vaults across. She doesn’t open her eyes until she feels it bounce against solid ground. Only then does she release her grip on its neck.

It slows to a halt, turning around to face the canyon. On the other side, Lorna and Shadow hover motionlessly, watching her. The Warden approaches them like a dark cloud in a hurricane, turning the sky black around them.

“Lorna!” Ava yells over the wind. “She’s catching up to you.”

The girl waves. “We can’t pass to the other side either!” There’s a hint of sadness in the girl’s voice. “You’re gonna have to fight that shade on your own!”

“Lorna, we have to go!” Shadow growls, grabbing the girl by her arm.

“I know you can do it! You look like a legit badass!” she cries out insistently, resisting her boyfriend’s pull.

_“Lorna!”_

“And I hope you find that girl!” she hollers as Shadow just manages to tug her out of the way of Warden’s rampage. “I really do!”

Just as the Warden reaches for Lorna’s shoulder, she and Shadow flit away, disappearing into the dust storm. The Warden is left screaming across the abyss, rage swimming in her eyes. Ava stiffens and she feels Rexy turn around and walk away – this time, with far less urgency.

As the Warden’s shrieks fade into the silence as wasteland morphs into serene grove. The heat subsides and the dust clears. The cool breeze that passes through her sweaty hair is heavenly.

Deep into the silent trek, Ava finds her mind wandering to Lorna’s words and the visions the Warden summoned. She sighs and presses her forehead into Rexy’s neck. That girl… The siren… But is she even that?

No. What else could she be?

The warmth she tried to capture in her palm has long since faded. And for a reason beyond her own comprehension, she feels its loss.

Rexy comes to a halt before an obstacle in their path – a woman. A dark chiffon dress, with a plunging neckline that leaves her slender golden-brown shoulders bare, adorns her body. Her skirt is layered – black on gold, shimmering in the soft light of the sun passing through the trees. Her face is obscured by a gold venetian mask.

Ava climbs off of Rexy to approach her curiously.

The woman lets out a choked breath. “Ava?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just continuing in the grand tradition of A du Mortain interacting with dinosaurs.


	27. Unkempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Needles

Five Agents stand in the dark foyer of Penney house.

As the door closes behind them, the house inhales them. It savors the taste of them on its tongue – how they wander uncertainly, how their circle breaks and reforms, how they take in their surroundings. They’re all hands, curiously brushing against the ancient furniture and the water-damaged paint on the walls. They taste of apprehension, terror, and purpose.

A solitary faded portrait hangs ahead of them, on the elevated landing of the bifurcated staircase. Beneath the gauze, a family of three looks ahead at them. In the center, the mother in her lavender dress is the only one whose features haven’t been buried under the dust, her red-blonde hair curled in an updo – her sharp pitying eyes seem set on the group below. Farah is the only one who meets her gaze, a paralyzing sense of recognition sinking over her.

“Well, this is one way to spend Halloween,” Ken remarks – he seems the least apprehensive of the bunch. His quip falls flat, words absorbed into the hungry walls.

Falasteen places a hand to her radio. “Rhode, where are you and Nat?”

Rhode’s reply can be heard in each of their earpieces. “We’re in the master bedroom on the second floor.”

“B-but that’s –” She seems to stop herself mid-sentence, returning to her usual unemotional and professional tone. “What do you need us to do?”

“Send Ken over to us. The rest of you need to do what Aryan couldn’t. You need to find the source of the haunting and you need to handle it.”

Falasteen does not reply, her hand is shaking over the button to the radio. Trigger shuffles closer to her. “We’ve got this, Rhode. Don’t worry.”

“I know you do,” he says softly.

When their earpieces come to life once more, it’s Nat speaking. “Farah, Morgan, you’re there, too, right?”

Hearing her voice sends a thrill through Farah’s body. It’s like a warm hug on a cold night – one she’s been sorely craving. “Yes, Nat. We’re here! Are you okay?”

There’s a smile in Nat’s voice. “I am. I just want to say… Be careful.”

“You too,” Morgan tells her, drawing a curious glance from Farah. “And…” Her voice trails off as though she’d changed her mind about speaking. “I’ll keep Farah out of trouble.”

An airy laugh fills their heads. “I’m counting on it, Morgan.”

Ken parts from the group, approaching the wide staircase to the second floor. He pauses with his hand on the bannister and turns around. “Take care of them, Trig.” Trigger nods and he takes that as his cue to resume his ascent.

The group tensely watches him disappear down the hall, completely consumed by the shadows. It’s hard to shake the image of the house swallowing him whole – of it chewing him and spitting him out. Yet he faces it like he’s done it a thousand times before. He does not even give the agents a second glance, like he’s certain he’s going to see them again. Each of them envies his confidence in this situation.

“So, what does ‘handling’ a haunting entail exactly?” Morgan asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

“We find its center,” Falasteen replies concisely. “And we purify it.”

Upon seeing the very confused looks on the vampires’ faces, Trigger steps in. “Think of a haunting like… a field of gravity. Anything that draws too close gets caught in the orbit: the spirits that wander these halls, hostile or otherwise, the shades that are helplessly drawn in from the Aperture, and even the living…” She trails off, her gaze moving past Farah and Morgan and into the dark hall.

The vampires turn their heads instinctively, catching a glimpse of a young girl with golden hair, lurking where the glow of Trigger’s flashlight is at its dimmest, as she hastily phases into the wall behind her. The flashlight flickers.

“Anyway,” Triggers voice shakes as she fixes her gaze back to the vampires. “The center of the haunting is like the body that is extending this gravitational field. But this body eats. It eats and it gets bigger and the field around it gets bigger – the pull gets stronger. And it also happens to be the most dangerous thing in this place.”

Morgan rolls her shoulders and cracks her knuckles. “Alright. Where is the sonofabitch. Let’s get to it.”

“It’s not that simple,” Falasteen says quietly. “We don’t know where it is.”

Morgan’s frown deepens. Falasteen’s heartbeat is so rapid and insistent it’s beginning to grate against her senses. Isn’t this supposed to be her job? Morgan’s gaze roams around the darkened foyer and into the halls on each side, straining her vampire vision against the oppressive darkness. Even the glow of their flashlights seems to get eaten up by the shadows. Is that what Falasteen’s so afraid of? The dark? Or does she know better than Morgan what lurks unseen, watching them curiously?

“We need to stick together,” Trigger says slowly. “It might take us longer to get through, but we can’t risk getting separated.”

Farah abruptly slips her hand into Morgan’s. “Way ahead of you!” She holds Morgan’s hand up with a triumphant grin.

Morgan groans but does not try to take her hand back.

Trigger looks relieved. She raises a finger to her temple and presses gently. Her dark eyes flash green in the darkness. She then fishes through her bag, pulling out what appears to be a modified assault rifle. Similarly, Falasteen pulls the hood of her coat over her hijab, revealing a pair of goggles built into the garment. She pulls out her stun baton, holding it in front of her like a sword. And suddenly, Morgan feels very under-prepared.

Trigger immediately takes the lead, with Falasteen so close on her tail you’d think the two were quite literally attached at the hip. They all head east into what looks like a large hall. There are so many marble statues positioned along the floor, some covered in cloth and some left exposed to grow black mold like plague. It feels like walking into a party uninvited and all the guests are watching them with great interest, whispering behind their backs, wondering who they came with.

The moonlight from the windows casts shadows against the ground that dance and scurry like spiders. The sound of thunder rocks the room as they become aware of the rain that beats relentlessly against the windows. Branches scrape against the glass as nails scraping against their skin.

Morgan tightens her grip on Farah.

“You alright?”

Morgan frowns and looks at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her question is punctuated by a particularly deafening clap of thunder. She snaps her head towards the window, her legs leading her idly past one of the larger statues to where she sees a pair of bright eyes looking at her.

“Morgan?” Farah’s uncertain voice sounds almost muffled in her ear compared to the sharp thunder and her boots scratching against the dirty floorboards. “Morgan, don’t let go of my hand. Please, don’t let go.”

Morgan tightens her grip on Farah’s hand only to find that her fingers tighten around nothing. She whips her head around, but Farah is no longer there, and neither are Falasteen and Trigger. Ribbons of unease wrap around her heart like snakes. She scowls, stepping away from the window and back to where the team _should_ have been, almost as though falling into step with them would make them magically reappear where they’re supposed to be.

“Farah?” she calls out, quietly at first, and then she howls like she’s found Farah messing in her things again. “Farah! Farah, where the _hell_ are you!”

She feels her boots stuck to the floor, pinned in place as the room spins around her. She can hear the steady ticking of a clock around her, but she can’t see the clock anywhere. She can just see the floorboards spiraling around her. The statues do not move, but they seem to regard her silently. When she looks back at the window, the flash of yellow is there. It blinks away in an instant.

“Hey!” Her voice sounds like its speed had been halved. The clock beats against her head like a bat with a rusty nail on the end. She presses the button to her radio. “Can you hear me?”

Nobody answers her.

She ambles through the hall, hands over her ears, trying to ignore the way her stomach lurches. There’s nothing here to fight against – no shade or rogue supernatural. She’s alone here with the sound of the rain, the sound of the branches, the scuttling of feet, her boots against the wood, and that clock that gets louder and louder and louder.

And then there’s something else. As she approaches an archway leading to the next room, she hears chains dragging against the ground. The ribbons around her heart tighten so much that she feels like the organ could burst at any moment, raining viscera like confetti. But this means there’s someone – someone she can confront – something she can do to fight back.

The house creaks as she enters the next room over, as though the walls were making space for her. This room greets her with a shocking flash of bright light. She doubles over, covering her eyes. She tentatively removes her hands, eyes adapting to the intensity enough that she can see the room around her.

The light is coming from an array of old electrical lamps hanging from the ceiling. The room is decorated like a 19th century hospital, with empty beds set along the wall on either side of her. She has to doublecheck the room she’d just come in to make sure the two vastly different chambers are truly attached. She finds, however, that the door behind her has shut.

The tight mask of Morgan’s face cracks under the strain. Her grey eyes widen. Her jaw goes slack. She tries to make her legs take her back to the door, to tug at it, force her way back, but she feels like she’s trudging through layers of thick sludge. Her arms feel like dead weight, dangling from her shoulder sockets like the limbs of a puppet.

The sound of the chains dragging against the wood gets louder, and with it, she hears hazy mumbles. She turns her head as the door on the far end of the room opens and a man in white high-collar shirt and neat black slacks enters, chains slithering after him like a tail. Flanking him are a group of elderly gentlemen in grey striped suits.

He opens his mouth to speak and words in a language Morgan cannot understand come out through his lips.

She turns and walks up to him. Her heart thunders in her chest. Every step she takes towards him she feels the heat intensify, like she’s walking towards an open furnace. Her eyes boil, growing so dry she fears they’ll melt out of her head and run down her cheeks.

He smiles crookedly. He speaks again, something that sounds like praise, and reaches for Morgan’s chin, holding it between his thumb and index finger as he scrutinizes her face.

He turns to his colleagues and barks something at them, and a wave of hushed whispers passes over them.

His fingers slide off, hand going back to his side. His tone is friendly, condescendingly so, although she does not know what he’s saying. He gestures towards one of the beds, directing another order at Morgan. The words scratch against the inner walls of her ears like an insect trying to make a home. It hurts. It hurts so much, and she wishes it would stop.

The mob of men frown at her from beneath their exaggerated mustaches. They seem to blink in unison, like they’d rehearsed the motion to torture her.

Again, Morgan finds herself turning around on command, taking a seat on the side of one of the beds. She raises her head towards him in one last pleading gaze. Her eyes are stinging with tears. Her arms are too heavy to move. She raises her legs off the ground and reclines against the bed. Head against the pillow, hair **unkempt** and spread around her like vines, she stares at the ceiling.

She can sense the man in white walking around her. His head appears in her field of vision. He utters more words of sickly praise before raising the chains before her. He snaps them taut in his hands and chuckles grimly.

***

Nat’s brow furrows as she gazes down at Ava’s sleeping face. The commanding agent has been laid in the center of the bed in the master bedroom. Rhode has lit a candle on the side table, which casts harsh shadows over Ava’s sharp features. Her skin looks heart-achingly pale, the pink of her lips has faded.

The well of tears in Nat’s heart is dry. She can still feel herself scraping the bottom, her lips quivering as she tucks her hand beneath Ava’s hair, thumb tenderly moving over the line of her brow. If this works – _and it has to work_ – she’ll see those striking emerald eyes open again.

The door creaks and Ken steps inside. Nat tears her eyes away from her friend to take in his entrance. He grins at her before stepping forward to lean against one of the tall bedposts.

“So, what’s the plan, boss?” There is a calm self-assurance in his voice that Nat wishes she herself had.

Rhode’s gaze travels to Nat briefly before going back to Ken. “She’s a Resonant, Ken. You need to show her how to pass into the Aperture.”

“The Aperture?” She starts. “Is that possible?”

Ken smirks. “Everyone passes through it eventually. You usually have to be dead or getting there, though.”

This causes Nat to flinch, her gaze shifting to Ava again. Her thumb rubs circles over Ava’s cheekbone, willing the warmth to come back.

“And do I have to…” Nat says in a low shaky voice.

She feels a hand reach for her shoulder from across the bed. She looks up at Rhode, who’s taken a seat on the other side of Ava. His dark brown eyes burn in the candlelight. “You won’t have to. You’re a Resonant.” His hand retreats almost immediately after he’s gotten Nat’s attention.

“At least, he thinks you are,” Ken corrects him, earning a dirty look from his own Commanding Agent. He sighs and shakes his head. “The connection Resonants have to spirits allows them to enter the Aperture more easily.”

“What’s the catch?” Nat asks, narrowing her eyes.

“The catch?” he asks, his lips curling into a smile.

“If getting Ava back is as easy as going into the Aperture, you wouldn’t have left Director Aryan in that state for decades.”

Ken looks over at Rhode, who doesn’t speak. He then shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest. “The catch is fighting this spirit is a suicide mission and Rhode knows it.” He directs a pointed stare at Rhode – but his gaze holds no anger; his eyes are remarkably compassionate. “But he thinks you can do it, Miss Sewell.”

Rhode looks away from Nat’s caring stare, and away from Ava as well. “Trigger and Falasteen are trained for this,” he says quietly. “They’re going to find the center of the haunting and weaken the spirit. That should give you an edge in the Aperture.”

Nat frowns, eyes brightening in sympathy. “Rhode…”

He meets her eyes again. “Your bond with Ava is strong. That matters in a place like the Aperture,” he says – his words almost sound like a warning. “Don’t lose sight of your objective.”

She nods firmly. Just then he’d reminded her a bit of Ava. Or maybe she’s just seeing what she wants to see… “And what will you do?”

The beginnings of a smile play at his lips. “I’ll be right here, watching over you. Making sure nothing hurts you while you’re in there.”

Ken lets out a loud yawn. “Well, we’re burning time right now. Let’s get to it.” He beckons Nat to him, standing at the foot of the bed. “This is a very simple and painless process.”

Nat circles around the bed until she’s standing right in front of him. “Tell me what to do.”

“Close your eyes and listen to the sound of my voice.”

She shuts her eyes, focusing on the sound of Ken’s breathing.

“Relax and take deep breaths.”

She can sense him moving his hands around. “I don’t need to breathe…” she informs him.

He chuckles at that. “Just humor me, vampire. It will relax you.”

She does as she’s told. Inhaling deeply, and releasing, letting the sensation loosen her muscles, which have been stiff with anxiety over her friend.

She senses his hand creep closer to her neck, and then she feels a prick against her skin followed by a burning pain that makes her entire body seize up. The sensation moves through her, causing her to topple to the ground, petrified.

She barely manages to choke out the words through her agony. “Dead… Man’s… Blood…”

Her senses begin to go dull. She can just about hear Ken mumble, “You sure this dose won’t kill her?”

She cannot hear Rhode’s reply, but her heart aches all the same as she spirals into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man updates did slow down but we're nearly done -- just a few chapters left
> 
> But anyway. HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAT <3


	28. Vengeful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of different perspectives in this chapter -- I'm sorry. I've got a lot of moving parts and stuff to resolve!
> 
> Fair warning, some imagery gets a bit graphic in this chapter.

“Morgan, don’t let go of my hand. Please don’t let go!”

Farah turns her head to look for Trigger and Falasteen, but the two of them have gone ahead, clearly not noticing that she and Morgan have fallen behind. She tries to tighten her hand around Morgan’s but ends up digging her nails into her own palm.

She locks eyes with a statue of a woman. Her straight marble hair falls down the sides of her face like a canopy. The sharp upturn of her nose reminds Farah of Director Chance. Her stone lips are pressed into a fine line.

The vampire stumbles backwards and whips her head around. “Morgan? Where did you go?”

Poppy’s face flashes in her mind’s eye.

“Morgan!” she calls out again. She clicks her radio on and yelps. “Can anyone hear me?”

The earpiece comes to life and she hears a voice behind the heavy static. “—Farah? Is that you?”

Her entire body tenses, her heartbeat coming to an abrupt stop, and the hair on her neck rising. “R-Rebecca?”

“W –” Static. “—you?” There is too much distortion to properly understand her.

By all accounts, Rebecca should not be here, but despite that, her presence bathes Farah in relief like ice on a burn. She turns around back to the entrance hall, pressing the button to her radio again. “Rebecca, I’m going to the entrance. Please meet me there.”

The static on the other end grows louder until it becomes unbearable to keep the radio on her ear. The device starts buzzing and whistling harshly. She can only hope that Rebecca has heard her, because it seems that’s all the use she’ll be getting out of the radio for now. When she shuts the device off, the room feels just a little bit colder. The silence is heavy, like someone is hiding and trying to hold their breath. There are eyes in the walls.

Chance’s eyes. She’s here. She’s still there. Every time she closes her eyes. It’s the same lavender glass staring back at her, slowly dragging her fiber by sinewy fiber into a meatgrinder. She can smell the scent of orchids and red wine – of onions and spices. She can hear the oil hissing on the pan – the dark chuckle that plays on a loop in her mind.

Farah shakes her head, focusing on the sound of the rain, which has grown distant. She tries to silence pots and pans banging around inside her head, letting her eyes roam around the room. It hasn’t changed – and Chance certainly isn’t here in any capacity. The trees still cast their slender shadows across the room. The statues stand unmoving in their places. The wooden floors are as grimy and gritty as they’d always been. Nothing new here.

She feels a gentle tug at her scarf from behind and whips her entire body around. All she can see is the archway leading back towards the entrance hall. The space directly behind her is completely empty. She hadn’t just imagined the sensation, had she? Her nerves are so frazzled, she wouldn’t be surprised. It, nonetheless, terrifies her that she cannot trust her senses.

She stumbles forth in the direction of the entrance hall, where she hopes that Rebecca is waiting. Just as she does, she feels another tug to her scarf, as though it had caught on something. This time, the sensation does not desist. The slight tension holds her in place for as long as it takes her to turn around again.

When she does, she is no longer alone, but staring down into a pair of pale eyes the color of foggy glass. A child with curly blonde tresses falling all the way down her back stands before Farah in a simple nightgown. Her small hand is still tugging at the violet scarf.

“Don’t go back there,” the girl whispers shyly. “He’s there.”

Farah takes a moment to pick the shattered pieces of her self-confidence off the floor. She scrunches up her face and shuts her eyes as though she were trying to squeeze the fear and tension out of her face like a sponge.

“Who’s there?” she asks.

The glassy eyes blink slowly at her. “The bad doctor. The one that lives in the bottle in the attic. Someone broke the bottle.”

“The bottle?” Farah feels her neck stiffen, so worried that if she turns her head, she’ll find this bad man standing behind her. Her imagination begins to concoct the most distorted of creatures, with far too many blackened teeth in their too big jaws, and hands like spider’s legs that caress the sides of her arms, poking holes into her flesh and peeling her skin right off her body.

“Come with me. I’ll keep you safe.” The girl holds out a translucent little hand, and Farah feels she has no choice but to take it.

***

Falasteen lets out a pained grunt as she’s flung at the dining room table. She somersaults backwards and tries to find her footing on the other side, ignoring the ache that travels along the length of her spine. She strains her vision through her tactical goggles, trying to pinpoint the location of the hostile poltergeist. Her grip tightens around her baton.

It hadn’t taken long for Trigger and Falasteen to realize they’d been separated from Morgan and Farah in the forest of statues. Though this is a cause of concern for them, they can only hope that the two vampires keep their objective in mind. They still need to find the center of the haunting, and that hasn’t changed.

With the team split down the middle, however, it has become much easier for the two Specters to be cornered by the hostile spirits of the house – of which there are more than either of them had anticipated. There’s a reason Penney House is a Guardian Class haunting. They know they’re outclassed, and all they can do is rely on their training and hope they don’t die – or worse.

Falasteen notices a subtle movement in the blue-green waves of the thermal display of her goggles. “By the door.”

The sharp cracks of Trigger’s rifle break the silence as she rapidly fires into the air by the door. She moves her aim in a steady line until the shots hit their mark – and when they do, the room lights up bright orange in Falasteen’s vision. The shots electrify the creature, outlining its long limbs and misshapen head. Its body grows tense, its jaw unhinging grotesquely in a silent scream.

Trigger feels something crash into her back and instinctively unhooks the stun-gun at her hip and thrusts it back. She feels the culprit stiffen and topple backwards. She then whips around, pointing her gun around the room. She scans the area with her thermal vision and fires again at a blur next to one of the boarded-up windows. The rapping of her gun as it hits the wood is loud enough to wake the dead – and it very well might have.

Another poltergeist goes down, and the women don’t have time to breathe before they hear a mournful wail. A head begins to rise from the center of the dining table. Its gaze is downward cast and its shoulders shudder as they manifest from within the wood. They have two faces on either side of its head, both pale as a porcelain doll, set in identical sorrowful grimaces, and their hair is grey and soaked to the roots. As their solid black eyes meet with Trigger’s – the second pair meeting Falasteen on the other side, those strained white lips open and from within, they unleash a piercing screech, loud enough that it causes the Specters’ earpieces to whistle and malfunction.

“Ah, fuck!” Trigger hisses, hastily picking them out of her ears and tossing them onto the ground. She notices Falasteen reaching into her hijab to do the same.

When the phantom has completely emerged, it is revealed to have several sides to it. It looks like an amalgam of different spirit, with several sets of arms and legs that overlap and intersect – the number of them varies depending on the angle from which it is being perceived. Most of all, the shadows coagulate around it, making it appear almost one-dimensional in the darkness of the dining room. This spirit is most definitely fused with a shade.

Trigger hasn’t even picked her jaw up off the floor when she feels something barrel into her, knocking her several feet to the side. She skids along the floor, digging the heel of her boot into the floor to stop herself. She doesn’t see the culprit at first, but the cold spot in her vision waves idly in the spot where she’d just been standing.

She aims and fires. The orange flares that web across her vision indicate that her bullets met their mark. She turns her gaze towards the spirit again. It leans towards Falasteen, who has gone completely stiff.

“Fal! What the hell are you doing?” Trigger hollers.

One of the spirit’s arms reaches for Falasteen, an image that sends pinpricks of fear across Trigger’s heart. She scrambles to reload her rifle, her fingers uncharacteristically fumbling with the rounds as though they were coated with oil.

A hand closes around Falasteen’s arm, another hand grabs bunches of fabric from her jacket, and yet another grips her neck. She regards the thing coolly through her thermal vision goggles, her eyes slowly locking onto its dark eye sockets. She slows her breathing as the fingers wrapped around her neck begin to tighten. She doesn’t resist. She weaves her hand between their bodies and into her jacket, feeling around for the small button hidden against her chest.

Trigger manages to get the rounds into the gun and aims it at the spirit. Her grip on the weapon is unshakeable, but her vision is too blurry to get a good shot without risking firing at her partner. The spirit and Falasteen alternate places in Trigger’s vision. It feels like they’re rotating around her head. Could it be that the poltergeist hit her harder than she thought? No; the rest of the room isn’t moving – just Falasteen.

In what almost looks like an optical illusion, Falasteen seems to split in two, leaving an echo of herself still wound up in the many, many arms of the spirit. The real Falasteen darts to the side with a speed that most supernaturals would be shocked a human could achieve.

The spirit is still distracted with the echo of her, confusion mounting in its awkward gangling stature. It tugs and morphs the echo like a spider toying with its prey until the echo melts like water in its hands. It retracts its arms, searching again for its prey, its head swiveling around on its axis until it locks onto Falasteen again. It lunges for her again, this time with a **vengeful** single-mindedness.

When its hands dig into the folds of her clothing again, she blinks away again, leaving another echo in its sickly grey hands. She leaps up and over the table to the other side, jabbing her stun baton in the space between her and the spirit as it attempts to grab her again.

The spirit goes stiff for a moment before jerking away from the baton. This delays it enough to allow Falasteen to run over to Trigger, who has managed to shakily pull herself back to her feet with the help of an old cabinet.

With her sights clear again, Trigger takes aim at the spirit. It is trying to close the distance between itself and the two Specter Agents. She inhales and pulls the trigger.

***

“I thought you said you didn’t get your hands dirty,” Rebecca sneers. She has one hand holding up a stun-gun and the other hovering over her holstered pistol. She takes a few tentative steps forward, looking around the Penney House foyer through her night-vision goggles.

Chance glances sideways at her through her snow-white bangs. “This hardly qualifies.” She gives Rebecca a charming grin. “Besides, when you so sweetly asked me to help rescue your agents – well, how could I refuse.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes.

The two agents cautiously climb up the stairs and into the darkened halls. The floral wallpaper swirls as they pass – the petals and leaves morph into fingers that push against the walls, reaching out towards the agents.

Chance continues to lead them with purpose through the halls.

“Have you managed to contact your Specters?”

From beneath white lashes, Chance glances back at Rebecca. “No, and I don’t need to. They’re trying to find the center of the haunting. I know exactly where that is.”

It’s hard to tell whether this disinclination to contact Unit Epsilon is born of complete disregard for their safety, or complete faith in their ability. Rebecca had attempted to contact the three members of Unit Bravo but was unsuccessful on all counts.

Rebecca finds herself watching the director keenly. There’s a needle-sharp focus in those eyes and chilling lack of their usual glamour – it’s the most honest they’ve ever looked. Her movements are so deliberate they appear rehearsed – like the path ahead is marked on the wood in invisible ink.

The attic of Penney House sits at the end of a path full of twisted corridors and even more twisted staircases. With the way the house is laid out, one would think the building were deliberately trying to trap visitors. The attic is behind a locked hatch for which Chance conveniently has the key. It smells of mold and decay – and rose water oddly enough, and as Rebecca enters, she immediately feels an immense pressure digging into her temples, making her tense her jaw.

“You think you can handle this, Agent Sarhan?” Chance asks without a hint of the usual sickly-sweet disdain coloring her tone.

Rebecca allows the other agent to assist her in stepping out of the hatch and onto solid ground. “I’m fine, Director.” She dusts off her pants and examines the room thoroughly. “What are we looking for?”

The room is more than simply an attic; it is decorated as though it were another bedroom in the house – though Rebecca cannot imagine why. On the way to the attic, the duo had passed by dozens of perfectly good bedrooms. The attic is also far smaller than what she’d expect out of a house this size; it had likely been added as an afterthought during the construction of the manor.

Chance steps towards the vanity, choosing each footfall carefully. She rests a hand on the dusty wood, tracing over the chipped white paint. The surface is empty. She clenches her hand into a fist and turns to look at Rebecca. She opens her mouth as if to say something and then stops when she feels her boot touch something that isn’t wood. She rolls the object under the sole of her shoes, listening as it scratches the floor.

“What is it, Chance?” Rebecca moves to take a step forward.

“Don’t!” Chance snaps and so, Rebecca stays frozen in place. “Don’t move.”

The director drops to a crouch where she stands and rubs a gloved hand over the ground, producing more of the scratchy sound from before. She feels something nearly pierce through the leather and gingerly picks it up with her thumb and forefinger.

“Glass…” she murmurs. “Broken glass… And no talisman…”

“Don’t be vague with me, Chance! What’s going on?” Rebecca crosses her arms over her chest.

Those violet eyes never turn to her. Instead, they remain fixed on the tiny glass shards littering the ground below the vanity. “There was a perfume bottle here. Someone broke it.”

Rebecca ponders the relevance of a perfume bottle in an abandoned house – surely the perfume would have evaporated long ago. She feels her legs wobble beneath her and frowns, trying to keep steady. The wooden planks on the ground, which had once been laid out in parallel, shift around her in a spiraling pattern for which she herself is the center. She keeps her gaze fixed on Chance’s side profile, ignoring the way her stomach starts to churn.

“What’s so important about it?”

Chance appears to sway as she gets back to her full height and begins to walk towards Rebecca. Were there always three of her?

“Agent Sarhan, are you alright?” Chance’s voice is so distant, like she’s hearing it through a wall. It’s hard to tell what expression she’s wearing on all three of her faces as they seem to fade in and out like old photographs.

Against every instinct she has, Rebecca reaches her hand towards Chance. “I don’t know…” is all she manages to say without feeling her insides twist painfully beneath her skin. Her bones seem to protest every movement she tries to make, straining against her skin and her muscles like they have a mind of their own.

Chance’s hand grips Rebecca’s forearm and she steps into the spiral with her. “Sarhan, this is the most dangerous room in the house.” She mumbles into the woman’s ear. “We are in the epicenter.”

Rebecca’s breath catches in her throat. She tries not to lean into Chance, but she does not dare move a single millimeter. “Tell me what to do,” she pleads.

Chance’s eyes flutter shut, and she presses herself up closer against the smaller woman. “We need to comb this room for the talisman, or the house won’t let us out.”

“What talisman?” Rebecca’s voice betrays her exhaustion. “How do we even find it?” She’s also beginning to grow uncomfortable with the warmth trapped between herself and her fellow agent.

Chance’s voice is strained. “It’s a doll in the shape of a man – dressed like a doctor. It had been contained within that perfume bottle, but it’s been broken.”

“And if it’s not in this room?”

The shadows in the room all seem to run like ink over the hatch until there is nothing there but darkness. So much for their way out.

“Then I must apologize to you, Agent Sarhan.” And there’s that sarcastically friendly tone back in her voice. “We may not have much choice but to wait for my agents to find it for us.”

“And…” Rebecca swallows a lump in her throat. “Is the proximity necessary while we search?” She shifts uncomfortably.

“If you don’t want to get taken by the shadows; yes.”

She looks over Chance’s shoulder at the vanity mirror. Through the dirty glass, she sees a pair of bright eyes glaring back at her.

***

Nat’s hearing is filled with a soft buzzing. She feels the solid earth laid beneath her, and the grass tickling her skin. Then she can hear trickling water – the sound tickles her senses like a feather beneath her nose. When she rises to a sitting position, it is as a puppet, lifted into the air by her strings – her limbs ache at the suddenness of the motion.

Her eyes snap open, and all is calm. A haunting grove runs ahead of her – trees paint the horizon the colors of autumn. She feels cool ceramic pressed to her face – a mask? She tries to pull it off of her but realizes with a sickening twist in her gut that it is rigidly fixed in place. As she gets to her feet, she realizes she is no longer in the same clothes she had been wearing when she entered Penney House. Rich dark fabrics run down her body with metallic golden detailing. The top of the dress exposes her shoulders and a fair bit of her cleavage.

She can hear something pounding the earth in the distance and is overcome with a single-minded compulsion to follow the noise. The leaves whisper around her, trees watching her dodge through them gracefully. She steps out of the trees into a clearing and feels a rush of wind lift her hair off her neck.

A large creature resembling a dinosaur slows its gait when it sees her.

A knight dismounts, taking slow and cautious steps forward.

Nat stumbles forward, her heart accelerating in her chest, her lungs losing their rhythm.

“Ava?”

The confusion in the knight’s pale face melts into desperation as she closes the distance between the before either of them can blink. She grabs Nat’s arms, grip sinking until she’s holding her hands. Her icy green eyes are narrowed in confusion, her lips trying to find the words to speak.

“Nat?” she says, her voice shaking. “H-How… How are you here?”

A boulder sinks to the bottom of Nat’s gut as she feels her emotions betray her, eyes filling with tears behind her mask. But she can’t hide the tells in her voice. She raises her hands to cup Ava’s flushed cheeks. There’s a chill in them, like she’d just emerged from a windstorm, but there’s a warmth beneath that chill – one that she’d ached to feel for weeks. “I came for you.” She lets out a shaky breath. “I came to get you back.” She then drapes her arms over Ava’s shoulders, pressing her body into her friend.

Ava freezes in her arms for barely even a moment before she eagerly wraps her own arms around Nat’s back, pulling her I even closer.

“This reunion is touching and all…” The voice causes both Nat and Ava to stiffen in their embrace. Ava watches a man emerge from the woods behind Nat. His face is half-covered in tactical goggles, but she has no trouble recognizing him as Ken from Unit Epsilon. He saunters over to them, adjusting his gloves, a wry grin on his face. “But we still have a spirit to fight.”


End file.
